


At First Sight III: Faithful Love

by Dorothy Marley (dmarley)



Series: At First Sight [3]
Category: Law & Order
Genre: Backstory, Blow Job, Drama, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-31
Updated: 2000-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmarley/pseuds/Dorothy%20Marley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Mike Logan's father was a beat cop his entire career, and Mike wonders if he's destined to follow in his footsteps. It's not long, though, before he encounters a sequence of cases that will change his life, and, perhaps more importantly, a man who makes him realize that he doesn't have to spend that life alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At First Sight III: Faithful Love

"Faithful love will never turn to hate."  
\--Christopher Marlowe, "Hero and Leander"

\-----

The next day, Ben's appointments started an hour before the offices officially opened, and went on through until five o'clock. Meetings with defense lawyers, another fruitless wrangle with Robert Lawson's public defender, a blow-up with Sarah over a missing transcript, and, finally, a stop at Centre Street for the first round of pre-trial motions. There were five defendants in the case, each of them with his own high-priced team, and as far as Ben could tell the mutual strategy was to win by burying him, personally, in a small mountain of blue-backed forms. He and Sarah arrived barely in time, and almost before they could catch their breath the fray began.

In a way, Ben appreciated the rush. It kept him busy, kept him focused, and, most of all, kept him from thinking about last night. He'd lain awake half the night, staring at the canopy above him, turning over every word, every nuance of Mike's confession over and over in his mind. More than once, he'd thought about calling him, thought about trying to continue the truncated conversation of the night before. In the end, though, he wasn't sure what he would say. He wasn't sure, even, what he really felt. He'd tried to analyze his own thoughts last night, tried to sort out the individual feelings from the chaotic swirl of emotions, but when he'd finally fallen into a fitful, exhausted sleep, he was no more at peace.

Part of him was occupied with mentally kicking himself, berating himself for not being more cautious, for not anticipating this day a long time ago. He should have known this was coming, should have shielded himself from the blow, drawn up his defenses. But the brutal truth was that he hadn't expected it at all. Despite all his fears and, yes, his insecurities, he hadn't really thought that Mike would leave him. Or, more accurately, that Mike would look aside quite so soon.

_Well, what did you expect?_ he asked himself harshly, facing the question for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. _A man like Mike Logan screws you for a few weeks, and you're surprised when he gets tired of you and finds someone else? The only surprise here should be that it didn't happen a long time ago._

By the time five o'clock rolled around, Ben had to concentrate not to reel as he walked out of the courtroom. It had been a tiring day yesterday, and even the perfect round of victories scored in the room behind him wasn't enough to bring the bounce back in his step. Sarah was still sulking over their earlier words, and her parting words were civil, but distinctly cool. Still feeling disconnected, Ben wandered over to the railing that overlooked the lobby, leaning his hands on the cool marble while he breathed deeply, trying to clear his head. Trying not to think about Mike.

Behind him, there was a sudden burst of volume. Voices, clicking heels, the creak of heavy wooden doors. A trial adjourning for the day. Curious, Ben turned and glanced back, unable, for a moment, to recall which of his colleagues was taking the field. But before he could catch a glimpse of who was behind the prosecution table, another figure walked out, eclipsing his attention.

"Max!"

Max Greevey turned, searching for the voice, and spied Ben over by the rail. His long, mellow-featured face broke into a rare smile, and he lifted a hand, changing his direction to join Ben by the railings.

"Counselor," he said, holding out his hand and grinning. "Fancy meeting you here." He released Ben's hand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar and sticking it, unlit, between his teeth. He had put on weight since the last time Ben had seen him, his good suit showing signs of new strain around the waistline. But his eyes were clear and sharp as ever, and his voice had all the old vigor that Ben remembered. The last time he had seen Max, just after the death of his partner, it had been a different story.

But Max appeared to be back in the saddle, and if Don Cragen's opinion meant anything, he was just as good as he'd ever been. "It's been a long time," Ben said, unable to suppress a grin. He nodded back at the courtroom. "What's the occasion?"

For a second, the smile turned into a scowl. "Three rounds between McCoy and Judge Black, with me as the punching bag."

Jack's case. Now Ben remembered, and wondered how he could ever have forgotten. "The Sanders case."

"That's the one." Greevey looked over his shoulder, Ben following his keen eyes to find the tall, thin form of the man who'd stabbed and slashed a roomful of patients in his doctor's waiting room. He'd left one dead, two hospitalized, maybe for life, and one, the one who had been dragged into the doctor's treatment room and raped, still under heavy sedation in a pricey private mental hospital. A trail of broken lives, and the man was calmly claiming that he'd merely been upset, that his lashing out wasn't meant to cause anyone harm. Right. Ben remembered now running into Jack McCoy the night after he'd fielded the case, sitting at the bar down the street, quietly and methodically getting drunk. Ben had gone in for a club soda and a bar meal, but instead he'd ended up closing the place down with Jack, talking over the case, commiserating. Both of them trying not to think about what would happen if Jack lost.

"I didn't realize it was your case," Ben said.

"Yeah, well, some case. Guy didn't even try to deny it. Didn't even try to run. His lawyer tried to plead him out as a nutjob, but he won't go for it. Wants his day in court. Asshole." Max turned back with a sigh. "Anyway, it's out of my hands now." He looked up at Ben, visibly tearing himself away from the scene behind him. "So. I hear I'm about to be seeing a lot more of you."

"I hope so." Ben held out his hand again. "Congratulations."

Max tried to look modest, but he was grinning. "Well, you know, Don was my partner, I guess he's just giving an old guy a break."

"Uh-huh. Well, how about accepting a drink anyway?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

\-----

Miraculously, they beat the rush to the bar down the street from the courthouse, a place so often frequented by lawyers escaping the end of day at the Centre Street courthouse that it had been nicknamed The Chambers. Max pushed his way through the bar to an unoccupied back booth, and within a few moments a waitress appeared to take their orders for a beer and a whiskey and soda. When she had vanished back towards the bar, Ben leaned back, taking a good, long look at his friend.

"You look good, Max," he said, and meant it. Despite the extra pounds on his frame, there was a relaxed, peaceful cast to his features, many of the hard, bitter lines that had settled there two years ago having vanished. It had taken Max a long time to get over Rob's death, a long time to stop blaming himself for what had happened. Even a year afterwards, he was still punishing himself for having been careless enough to lose his partner, working double shifts, taking on an impossible case load. Trying to do the work of two men. But that seemed to be behind him now, and Ben was glad that he'd decided finally to move on, to take on a new task and leave Rob's ghost where it belonged, in the past.

Max only shrugged. "Vacation," he said, making a face. "Two months, May and June. Two weeks, we went to the beach. The rest of the time, I sat and ate my wife's cooking." He patted his stomach. "I gained twenty pounds, and I loved every bite."

"It seems to have done you good," Ben agreed.

"Yeah, well." Max looked away. "I was tired of it," he said at last. "I was getting this close to burning out, to packing it in and finding something to do behind a desk. But Captain Clark called me in one day, showed me my vacation sheet, and told me I was taking eight weeks. Period." He shrugged, and grinned. "Guess he knew what he was doing, huh?"

"So, how are Marie and the kids? Eileen is, what, twelve now?"

For an instant, Max's face darkened, his expression closed off, cold. Ben felt a moment of mild panic, wondering if something had happened, some new catastrophe that had slipped his attention. Then Max relaxed, and smiled. "Yeah. Thirteen in three months. An official teenager." He lifted his beer as the waitress finally dodged through the thickening crowd to slide their drinks in front of them. Ben gave her a bill and told her to keep the change, and then lifted his tumbler to clink with Max's frosty mug.

"To daughters," he said solemnly, and watched Max's face soften, a fond smile spreading over his face.

"To daughters," Max agreed, and took a long, grateful drink. "And sons," he added virtuously, and tipped the glass again. He swallowed, and set his mug down with a sigh. "Marie's taken early retirement," he went on, picking up the thread of their conversation. "Her mother had a stroke, last year. Marie finally got tired of leaning on the health care people, of going down to the home twice a week and screaming at them. So she took retirement, and moved Harriet into the guest room."

"I'm sorry to hear about that."

Max waved it away. "It's not so bad," he said, and then changed the subject. "How's Elizabeth? I heard about the Mets pulling it out of their hats yesterday. She must have loved that."

"She did," Ben assured him, but felt himself frown as he saw the closed expression return to Max's face. This time, he didn't let it pass. "Max? Something wrong?"

For a while, he thought Max would try to brush it off again, then the other man sighed, and reached for his glass again. "Sorry, Ben," he said. "It's just . . . I caught this case, two weeks ago. Two weeks, I can't get it out of my head."

"What kind of case?"

Another swallow. "Teenage girl. Barely teenage. Strangled to death in her own bedroom. Pretty girl, blond hair, blue eyes." He cast his eyes up. "Like Elizabeth. I thought about her, thought about Eileen." He narrowed his eyes suddenly, staring across the table. "What?"

Ben became aware that he was staring. Gaping, in fact, his face feeling cold, as if every drop of blood had drained out of it. Which, judging from Max's expression, it might well have. "Not Mimi Marston," he said, just to be sure, to make certain that Max wasn't somehow mistaken.

"Who?"

Ben took a long, deep breath. "Oh, God," he said. He leaned forward, putting his hands on the table. "Thursday. A teenage girl, found dead in her room. Beaten to death, not strangled. Blond hair, blue eyes."

Max's face had hardened, but not into anger. He was focused, a man on the scent, the convivial atmosphere over their shared drinks dissipating the instant his interest was tweaked. "Where?"

"Lower East Side, near Thomas Park."

"Son of a gun." Max sat back slowly, reaching automatically into his pocket, pulling out a worn notebook. "Ninth Precinct? Who's the investigating officer?" When Ben didn't answer right away, he looked up. "What? What's wrong?"

The clash of his mental gears was frightening, visible, Ben was sure, to the sharp-eyed man across the table. Well, no hope for it now. "It's Beaumont's case," he said at last, and was surprised to see something like comprehension dawn on Max's face.

"Oh." There was a wealth of meaning in the syllable. "No wonder I haven't heard about it. Francis Beaumont wouldn't recognize a pattern case if it bit him on the ass." Max slapped the notebook closed. "Say no more. I'll go get the details myself." He lifted his drink, cocking his head curiously. "How'd you find out about it?"

_All the hard questions, huh, Max?_ "One of the uniforms who responded to the 911 call. He told me about it. Said it was pretty bad." There. That was sufficiently vague.

"My, aren't we mixing with the common folk these days," was Max's only remark. He flipped the notebook open again, and drank beer with his free hand. "Who?" When Ben stared again, stalling, he raised his brows. "The uniform's name. I'd like to talk to him, if he was first on the scene."

"Mike Logan." Ben watched Max scribble the name down. "Max . . ." he began, then cut himself off, not sure how to say it.

Max took another swallow. "What?" He looked up. "Now what?"

Ben hesitated, formulating his words, working his way through the unaccustomed minefield of prevarication. "Logan's a young cop," he finally offered, straining to keep his voice controlled, the right mix of concern, and caution, but not worry. "He feels like Beaumont's mishandling the case, but he knows he doesn't have standing to--"

Max held up a hand. "Say no more." He shut his notebook again, and drew a finger over his lips, zipping them shut. "Don't worry. I won't torpedo him. And far as anyone knows, I found out about the case through the Tooth Fairy."

Now that he'd been given the connection to his case, Max wasn't able to sit still for long. He left after the first drink, remarking that he might pay a visit to a bar in the Ninth Precinct, and was gone almost before Ben could make his good-byes. A cop on the trail of a killer. Ben wished him the best. He finished his own drink, and then went home.

\-----

Tuesday. 3:23. Mike penned the numbers carefully on his log sheet, shaping each figure with a mix of weariness and satisfaction. Log-out time. End of the shift, end of the day. Time to go . . . He sighed, and tossed his clipboard on top of the patrol car. _Time to think about going home,_ he amended wistfully.

He shuffled through the end-of-shift routine tiredly, filing his paperwork, turning in his log, and finally, heading down to the locker to change.

"Hey, Logan! Mikey!"

_What now?_ Mike turned back to the desk, giving the sergeant a long, weary stare. "Yeah?"

"Captain wants you," Massington said crisply, and pointed. "In his office, now."

"Now?"

"Now."

"Crap." Mike muttered under his breath as he pushed through the doors into the squad room, making his way through the tangled, cramped maze of desks until he reached the glass-walled office of the Captain. The door was open, and Captain Jonson merely waved him through, gesturing for him to close the door behind him. Mike did so, and glanced curiously at the other man who was standing beside Jonson's desk. He was a heavyset man, wearing a wrinkled brown suit and a loosened brown tie, a gold detective's badge clipped to his belt. He looked Mike up and down as he came in, his narrow eyes scouring him before turning back to Jonson.

"Logan," Jonson said diffidently. "This is Detective Greevey, from the Three-Three. He wants to talk to you."

"What about?" Mike kept his eyes on Greevey, saw a flicker of something, maybe annoyance, maybe amusement, in his eyes.

"The Marston case," Greevey said, and Mike felt a chill.

"Sure," he said, trying to sound casual. "The little girl." He swallowed. "What about it?"

Greevey looked him up and down again, flicking his eyes from Mike's head to his feet. Looking for something, but Mike couldn't guess what. "Nothing," he said, his voice a perfect match for Mike's. Casual, unconcerned. "Just wanted to check out something. It's for a case I'm working on." He jerked his head towards the side door. "Why don't we take a room, sit down?" A glance at Jonson. "If that's all right with you, Bennie."

"Sure." Jonson returned, with relief, to the stack of papers on his desk. "Anything you need, Max."

They took the first room they found, one of the smaller interview rooms, rarely used to actually question suspects, mostly used as a holding room for grieving and/or angry and indignant relatives. Mike took a chair gratefully, easing his tired body onto the hard wooden slats. All day in a car, and he still felt as though he'd been running marathons. He watched Greevey shut the door, and tried to scrape his tired thoughts together, tried to remember what he should, and shouldn't, know about this case.

"Just get off shift?" Greevey asked, and Mike jerked his attention back to him, realizing that he'd wandered for a moment.

"Yeah."

Greevey nodded sympathetically, then put down the folders he was holding and flipped the top one open. "Sorry to keep you. And I was hoping to talk to your partner, too. Caruso."

"That'll be a little hard. He's in Eastbridge."

"Yeah, I heard. Too bad." Greevey ran his finger down the page, and Mike belatedly recognized it as his own report on the Marston crime scene. "Anyway, says here he stayed downstairs with the father. You were the one who found the little girl and her mother."

"Yeah." Mike cleared his throat. "Upstairs, in the bedroom."

Greevey folded his hands on top of the report. "Why don't you just start from the beginning. Tell me what you saw."

So Mike did. Describing the call, when it came in, how long it took them to get there, and what they had found when they arrived. He held back nothing, reciting it exactly as he'd written it down, and when he'd finished Greevey leaned back, lacing his hands over his middle.

"And you say the little girl was in her bed. Laid out."

"That's what it looked like. Like I said, the mother was holding her, so she'd been moved."

"Anyone ask the mother how she found her?"

Mike hesitated. "I did," he said at last. "She says she was lying in the bed. She didn't say any more than that, but the bed was made up. She wasn't under the covers."

Greevey appeared to digest this for a moment, then he pulled out the second folder from his pile, and opened it. He searched through it briefly, then extracted a picture and passed it across the table. "Take a look at this."

Mike did, and felt his blood run cold.

She was lying in a bed, arms by her sides, hands lying flat by her thighs. A long cotton nightgown covered her body, her bare feet barely poking out from under the lace-trimmed hem. Her blond hair was spread on the pillow, outlining her pale, peaceful features. Below them, the white nightgown spread in a sea of red, blood flowing and pooling from her ravaged neck.

"Jesus," Mike said involuntarily.

"That's Louise Tourneur. She was killed two weeks ago, found in her bed by her older brother. Strangled."

Mike looked at the picture again. "Strangled? Her throat was cut, looks like."

"Post-mortem," Greevey said briskly, and raised his eyes to meet Mike's. "Her vocal cords were removed."

"Aw, man." Mike pushed the picture away, wiping his hand down his face, as if trying to wipe the image from his mind. "Wow," he said. He glanced up at Greevey sharply. "You think it's the same guy?"

"Do you?"

For a second, Mike just stared. "It's not my case," he finally said, and winced at the bitterness that all but screamed from his tone. He hadn't realized there was that much resentment there. "What I mean," he said, trying to cover himself, "is that shouldn't you be asking Beaumont about this?"

Greevey shrugged. "Maybe. But I like to get other opinions." He tapped the picture. "So. Opine."

Mike sat forward warily. "Two girls," he started cautiously. "Same age, same coloring. Both found in their beds, in their nightclothes, laid out. Lots of blood at the scene, but one was beaten, one was strangled. Both mutilated after death."

"You've read the Medical Examiner's report?" Greevey didn't sound surprised, but Mike felt himself flush guiltily.

"I was curious," he said casually. "So what?"

"Uh-huh." Greevey leaned back again, studying him. "One thing you didn't mention, though."

"What?"

"The parents. Aren't they the prime suspects for the Marston case?" Mike said nothing. Greevey waited, then nodded, as if he'd answered, and started pulling his files together. "Well, that's all for now, Officer Logan. Thanks for your time."

Mike stood, feeling obscurely angry, not sure why. "Sure," he said shortly. "Fine. Glad to help." He stalked out.

Okay, so the parents were suspects. Beaumont's suspects. Greevey hadn't asked him what Beaumont thought, he'd asked what Mike had thought. If that wasn't good enough, then screw him.

_It's not your case,_ he told himself again, repeating it while he undressed in the locker room, chanting it in his head while he put on his street clothes, picked up his satchel of books, and prepared to leave. He was halfway down the front steps when a familiar voice called his name.

"Logan!"

Mouthing a curse, Mike turned back and confronted Detective Greevey as he trotted down the last steps to come face to face with him. "What do you want now?" he asked, not caring that he sounded pissed off. Not caring if he alienated him.

Greevey ignored the grump in his voice, his face the picture of innocence. "Nothing. I was on my way out, and I wondered if I could buy you a drink."

For a crazy, heartstopping moment, Mike wondered if the other detective was actually coming on to him. _That's guilt for you. Sleep with your partner once, and suddenly you're sure everyone in the department knows about it._ But Greevey's face was shining with innocent goodwill. An act, Mike was sure, but not that kind of act.

Something of the conflict must have shown on his own face, though. Greevey's smile melted, and he put a hand under Mike's arm, steering him with surprising strength down the steps. "Come on, Logan," he said, dropping his voice. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know. I know the score."

Maybe it was that kind of act. "You do?" Mike said warily, wondering how much force he'd have to use to get away, and if it was worth knocking a superior officer on his ass in front of the precinct doors to do it. _Cut it out, Mike,_ he told himself. _Not every man in the world is queer just because you are._

"Yeah. You're just getting started, you don't want to make waves. You know Beaumont's a jerk, but you know that he could make your life hell, too. Maybe even deep-six your career before it starts. I know, I been there."

Some of the panic began to flee, and Mike felt himself relax. "Yeah, well, it is his case. He's the detective, I'm not." No, that didn't sound bitter.

Greevey didn't answer right away. When he didn't, Mike glanced over, saw the other man's eyes fasten on his satchel. "Class tonight?" he asked casually.

Mike hesitated. "No. Make-up test. I'm taking a criminology course over at John Jay. Brushing up"

Greevey's brows shot up. "A make-up test?"

Mike shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I had a good excuse, all right?"

Greevey shook his head. "Irish charm," he said admiringly. "Gets 'em every time."

Mike wasn't sure, afterwards, why he did it. Greevey might be on the level, but he might just as easily have turned right around and squealed every word to Beaumont, or Jonson. But all he knew was that he was suddenly tired of playing the game, of pretending to be deaf, dumb, blind and stupid just because he didn't come to work in a suit. "Look, I was up all freakin' day and all freakin' night working on _Detective_ Beaumont's freakin' case, and--"

"I know."

The calm certainly in Greevey's voice stopped him cold. "Huh?" he said intelligently.

"I know." Greevey started walking, steering him away from the steps, away from the constant parade of passing cops. "Look, Logan, I've been looking at the Marston case since yesterday afternoon. Talking to the parents, talking to Beaumont and Fletcher, talking to the medical examiner. And everywhere I go, you've been there first."

Heat flooded Mike's face. "I wasn't trying to--"

"I know, all right?" Greevey shook his head. "Look, all I care about is catching this guy. I understand you're in a awkward position." He waved a hand towards the corner. "So, I thought maybe the two of us could have a drink, maybe talk. And whatever we talk about, well, it isn't on the city's clock, is it?"

Mike hesitated. "Look, I want to help. But if I don't take this test, I'm sunk. I know it sounds stupid. It is stupid." He laughed. "Blow off solving a case in order to be a detective. That makes sense."

"That's bureaucracy," Greevey said. He reached up and slapped his shoulder. "Tell you what. I'm parked around the corner. I give you a lift to John Jay, and after your test, we have the drink. Fair enough?"

Mike didn't have to consider. "Fair enough."

\-----

Max dropped his passenger off at the curb, and told him he'd wait. Logan nodded, and took off, loping effortlessly up the steps three at the time. Max watched him go, then shook his head and reached for the folders beside him. Nice to be young.

He spent the time studying the Marston case, familiarizing himself with the details again, trying to pair them in his head to Louise Tourneur. Long before he expected, Logan was back, tapping at his window. Max slid over and unlocked the door, and starting scraping papers together.

"That was fast," he remarked. "Did you actually take the test?"

"Piece of cake," Logan assured him, and settled himself into the passenger seat, scooping up the last of the files and handing them over. "And now, I'm starving."

Max felt himself grin. "I know just the place." He started the car and pulled out from the curb, edging into the evening traffic. Beside him, Logan was staring out the window, his face lapsing into the perpetual frown that Max had already noted. Max knew exactly how he felt.

He left Logan alone until they'd reached the bar. Logan looked at the place a little dubiously, but Max ushered him in with a hand on the small of his back, guiding him towards the rear of the bar. "Trust me," Max said. "They may not look like much, but the stew is better than what your Grammy made in the old country."

For some reason, that made Logan smile, and his back relaxed under Max's hand. "I don't know," he said, "Grammy was no slouch."

"Trust me," Max said again, and led him to a booth. He ordered a beer and the stew, and after a moment's thought, Logan shrugged and did the same. When the beer arrived, they both took long pulls, and Logan made a "not bad" noise as he put his mug back on the table. He still looked tired, to Max's eyes, but there was still a spark there, the light of intelligence that was always the hallmark of a man on the scent. It made Max curious.

"So how'd you get involved in this case?" he heard himself asking. "I mean, you were there . . ."

At first, Logan didn't respond. Then he shrugged, turning his mug on the bar mat. "I don't know," he said. "I mean, I've seen it before. But this time--" He shook his head. "Most of the time, I hand the case over to the suits, I feel like I've done my job, you know? Sometimes I follow the case, see where it goes, make sure somebody paid for it. But this time . . . I didn't feel good handing it over. Not just because of Beaumont. That was part of it, but mostly, I hung on because I wanted to find the guy who did it. Me, personally. I dunno, maybe that's stupid."

"No," Max said slowly. "No, it isn't. I'm not saying," he added quickly, "that's it's healthy to do it every day. But you don't care, you don't do the job. I mean, we can't walk around being a bunch of bleeding hearts, but when someone dies, somebody has to care enough to find out who did it."

Logan mulled this over a while. "I guess that's what got me," he said. "Beaumont didn't give a damn. Okay, so maybe the parents were good suspects. I don't know. But he's not letting go. He doesn't care enough about who did it to see that he's wrong." He shook his head, and drank again. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired, getting loopy." He wiped his hands over his face, letting his shoulders sag. "It's been a hell of a week."

"Amen." They clinked mugs, and Max reached down for the folders on both the cases. He put them on the table, but left them closed. "Okay," he said. "Tell me what you think. From the beginning. Forget the party line, just tell me what you would have done. What you have done."

Logan hesitated. "First of all, I don't buy the parents," he said. "I know you said forget the party line, but that's what got me going. I saw them, Detective. They didn't do it."

"You have evidence? Or just instinct?"

"You want evidence?" Logan leaned forward, holding up a hand to tick off points on his fingers. "No murder weapon. Easy access to the girl's room from the fire escape. No blood anywhere but the girl's room. No blood on the father. Very little blood on the mother, easily accounted for by her picking up her daughter. And last but not least, the missing finger. No sign of it, and no tool in the house that could have made that cut."

"But the parents could have covered up," Max pointed out. "Cleaned up, hidden or destroyed all the evidence, and then dialed 911. Perfect grieving couple."

That braked Logan for a second, then he shook his head. "No sign that girl was ever abused. No marks, no bruises." He swallowed beer. "You tell me that they lived in harmony for thirteen years, and then suddenly Mommy and Daddy snap and beat her to death? No sale."

"It's a possibility," Max pointed out diffidently.

"Yeah, it is." Logan sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "Look, I'm not saying you're wrong. Sure, they could have done it. But we canvassed the neighbors, and all they said was that the Marston's seemed like nice people. Walls like toilet paper, and they never heard a raised voice or anything." He swallowed beer again. "Of course, they didn't hear anything the day of the murder, either. No one home."

"But still, you have a family spat, you don't schedule it for when the neighbors aren't home." Max reached for the files again. "You interview anyone else?"

Again, the hesitation. "No," Logan said reluctantly. "I haven't had time. I wanted to talk to the mother's sister again. Seemed like she was close to them. If there were problems, she might know."

"Yeah, I talked to her yesterday. Same story as the neighbors. No problems." Max started flipping through his notes. "I called Mimi's school. No reports from teachers, nurses, anyone."

Logan regarded him thoughtfully. "Sounds like you covered a lot of ground yesterday."

"Someone had to," Max pointed out. He leaned back as the waitress arrived with their food, sliding two platters expertly onto the table. She moved off, promising a refill on their beers, and left them with the stew. Logan tucked into his with appetite, and gave an approving nod after the first few bites.

"Not bad. Grammy's going to have to bone up." He was cleaning his plate while Max had a good portion to go, and was still rooting around in the bread basket for scraps when Max finally pushed his own plate aside.

"Skip lunch today?" Max asked, and got a sheepish shrug.

"You know how it is. You grab a meal, and while you're chewing the first bite someone decides to take a swing at their old lady."

Max nodded. "Oh, yeah. Trust me, wearing a suit doesn't change that."

Logan gave him a speculative look. "So, how long you been on the force?"

"Me? Twenty years. Fifteen in homicide."

"At the Three-Three?"

Max waved a hand. "Here and there. I've been at the Thirty-Third about two years now. But I'm about to transfer out."

"How come?"

Wondering why they were suddenly talking about _his_ career, Max obliged. "There's a new squad forming up. My old partner is a Captain now, he asked me on board."

"You mean the DA's squad?"

That startled him. So far, it wasn't exactly common knowledge. "Yeah." He shrugged. "Kind of a nutty idea, if you ask me, but if it works . . ."

"Why wouldn't it?"

Max shrugged again. "Me, I like working my cases like I think they should be worked. I don't like the idea of the DA looking over my shoulder. But--" He spread his hands. "I'm willing to try it. Anyway," he finished tiredly, "we'll see how it goes."

"Good luck," Logan offered.

"Thanks." Max looked down at the folders lying beside him, and sighed. "I tell you what. If the squad was on board right now, I know what I'd vote for the first case."

Logan nodded to his notes. "What else did you turn up?"

"Nothing much. I mostly worked the gaps that those two bozos had left, checking the parents out, working the neighbors, that sort of thing. Nothing."

"What about the mutilation?" Mike reached for the Marston folder, and flipped to the medical reports. "From what the examiner said, it was pretty deliberate. Calculated."

"Hm. Yeah. Waited until she was dead, same as Louise Tourneur. But why switch from strangling to beating? Doesn't make sense."

"Does any of it make sense?" Logan pointed out. He reached for the Tourneur file, opened it and started to read. "I guess you didn't make any obvious connections between them."

"Nope. Not related, went to different schools, different doctors, different churches . . . nothing jumps out." Max looked over at Logan, seeing him staring down at the examiner's report on Louise Tourneur, his thick brows pulled together in thought. "Something?"

For a minute, Logan only stared, then he shook his head. "Maybe," he said slowly. "No. I don't know." He closed the folder, reaching over for his drink. "He cut off Mimi's finger. Her extra finger. And he removed Louise's vocal chords. He beat Mimi, he strangled Louise. There's got to be a reason." He looked up at Max, curious. "Any clue as to why Louise's voice box was the target?"

"No." Max paused for a second, then admitted, "I didn't think to ask."

"Well, here's another thought. If this isn't a one-time thing, maybe it's not a two-time thing, either. You follow me?"

Max nodded soberly. "All too easily," he said grimly. "All too easily."

\-----

By the time they finished going over every detail of the two cases, comparing notes, trying to find some kind of link, some clue that would lead them to the connection between the two girls, it was nearly six-thirty. Greevey offered to drive Mike home, but Mike settled for a lift to his car.

"I'll just have to drive it back tomorrow," he told Greevey. "I've got a seven am roll call, I'll need it if I miss the bus."

"Suit yourself," Greevey said equably, and drove them back to the Ninth Precinct. He dropped Mike off at the corner, and before driving away he leaned over, addressing Mike through the open window. "Hey, Logan."

Mike turned back. "Yeah?"

"You did good work," Greevey said, almost grudgingly. "On the Marston case. First rate thinking."

"Thanks." Mike wasn't sure what to say. "Nice to hear it."

Greevey shrugged his heavy shoulders, a faint smile quirking at a corner of his mouth. "Good luck," he said, and waved as he settled behind the wheel again.

"Thanks," Mike said again to his retreating taillights, and turned towards the garage entrance. He was tired, but for the first time in days, it felt good.

\-----

Mike got home around seven o' clock, and had barely had a chance to put his books down when the phone rang. Mike stared at it for a good three rings, wondering for a brief moment if it was Ricky, or Katy, and trying not to hope for anyone else. On the fourth ring, he picked it up.

"Logan."

"Hi. It's Ben."

Something clenched in Mike's stomach, whether joy or fear, he couldn't really say. All he knew was that the sound of Ben's voice was the sweetest thing he'd heard all day, and that he dreaded knowing what it might say. "Hi," he managed. "I didn't expect to hear from you," he added before he could stop himself.

There was a long silence. "I--" Ben broke it off, then started again. "I'm not sure why I called," he finally said, and Mike felt his brows go up at the admission.

"I'm glad you did," he offered. "It's good to hear from you."

"Mike . . ." Mike heard a soft clatter from the other end of the phone, and felt a soft twist in his gut as he envisioned Ben's glasses dropping to the desk in front of Ben, saw those long, fine hands reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Mike," Ben began again, "I don't want you to feel as though I've run out on you. That's all."

"Hey, you didn't run out," Mike said roughly. _That's my job,_ he didn't add. "It's okay," he lied instead. "I understand." He heard himself give a short laugh. "I guess I never really expected to hear from you again."

This time, the silence was even longer. "You almost didn't." Ben hesitated. "I won't lie to you, Mike. I was angry. Maybe I didn't have the right--"

"Hey. You had every right, okay? It was wrong, and I knew it was wrong. You trusted me, and I broke it. I wouldn't blame you if you never spoke to me again."

"And yet here I am. Mike, I'm not saying that I'm ready to pick up as if nothing happened. For one thing, it depends on what you think."

"Me?"

Another deep breath. "On whether or not you think it's over. If you do, then there's nothing more to say. We'll go our separate ways."

It took Mike two tries to speak. "And if I don't?" he finally managed.

"Then I need some time. I don't know how long. Not too long. It's up to you, Mike. If you want to end things now--"

"I don't." Mike swallowed the rest of the words, determined to keep some of his dignity, if nothing else. "You take your time," he said at last. "I--" He had to swallow again before he could finish. "I'll be here," he promised, and wondered at the flood of relief that filled him with the simple words.

"Thank you," Ben said softly. "There's another reason I called," he said, and Mike heard the professionalism snap back into his voice, as though someone had flipped a switch. "I talked to someone from the Thirty-third Precinct yesterday, a detective--"

"Greevey. Yeah. He came by the precinct today." Mike paused. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. "You tipped him off about the Marston case?" _After I asked you not to?_ He didn't say the last, but the first words came out tinged with an anger he didn't expect. He didn't apologize, though.

"Not exactly," Ben said after a long, silent moment. "He mentioned his own case, and I couldn't very well not tell him about Mimi Marston. I'm sorry. I know I said I wouldn't interfere."

Mind-reader. Mike felt himself make a face. "It's all right," he said after a grudging moment, and took a deep breath. "I guess you had to."

"Max Greevey is a good cop," Ben said. "Believe me, if he's on the case, it's in good hands."

"Yeah. Yeah, I noticed." Mike rubbed his eyes tiredly, suddenly unwilling to even continue the conversation. This was too hard, standing here talking without saying anything, unable to do anything. It was a helpless feeling, and Mike didn't like it one bit. "Look, I'd better go. I've got an early shift."

It was an impossibly lame excuse, but Ben accepted it with good grace. "All right," he said. "We'll talk later." When Mike didn't answer, he went on. "I promise. I'll call again."

With a sigh, Mike relented. "Okay. Sure." He started to say, _I miss you,_ then stopped himself, not wanting to go down that particular road right now. "Good-night," he said instead. "I'll talk to you later, I guess."

"All right. Good-night, Mike." Ben hung up. After a second, Mike did the same, and spent a long, pensive minute staring at the silent phone on its cradle.

"This sucks."

\-----

In the morning, for the first time in a week, Mike forced himself out of bed to run. It wasn't something he particularly enjoyed, but he enjoyed less letting perps get away because he was too slow or too winded to chase them. He and Ricky used to jog together twice a week, but he guessed now he'd have to find another partner. For a lot of things.

As his body warmed up, his mind falling into the familiar fugue, he began to remember some of the reasons he'd avoided running the last week. Part of it was sheer tiredness, the exhaustion of long days and sleepless nights. But the rest of it, he began to realize as the streets slipped by, was that running was the perfect time to think.

A half a dozen times during that phone call last night, Mike had opened his mouth to say, "Why don't I just come over?" and half a dozen times had shut it on the words. Maybe he wasn't the world's expert on long-term relationships, but he knew when the ball was in his court, when it was his turn to make the moves. Right now, it wasn't. He sensed something like a similar struggle going on in Ben's strained words, an impulse to just get together, and let the sex handle the problem. Except that this time, the sex was the problem. His problem.

His normal run stretched halfway around the neighborhood, a long oval route that took him, on a good day, fifty-five minutes to complete. Today, it was closer to an hour before he turned up the last street to find Max Greevey perched on the steps of his building, reading the morning paper, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He waved at Mike as he jogged up the street, then returned to his paper, lounging on the steps as though they were his own personal breakfast table.

"You should have better security," he remarked as Mike walked up to him, breathing hard, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I got all the way to your door without a single lock. Eight flights, though . . ." He fanned himself with the paper. "No wonder you jog. Have to keep in shape for the stairs."

"Just make yourself at home," Mike panted, not bothering to hide his surprise. Or his annoyance. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

Greevey spread his hands. "Waiting for you," he said pleasantly. He sucked down the last of the coffee, and tossed the cup into a trash can. "I was wondering if you even made it home last night, but I guess I was wrong."

Mike studied his bland, innocent face for a long, thoughtful moment. "Why are you here?" he asked again.

To his surprise, Greevey sobered at once. "I got the Marston case," he said quietly. "Convinced my captain it was tied to the Tourneur girl."

"And Beaumont let it go?" Mike was dubious.

The other man's smile had a mean, satisfied edge. "He didn't have a choice."

"Well--" Mike was nonplused, wondering what he was supposed to say. "Thanks for telling me. Good luck." He started to push past, but Greevey's voice stopped him.

"You got a pair of blues up there?"

Mike turned. "Huh?"

"A spare uniform," Greevey elaborated. "It'll save time."

Now Mike knew he was confused. "What do you want, Greevey?"

"You." As Mike gaped at him, Greevey spread his hands. "I know you just lost your partner, figured you'd like to work the case with me. So, I took the liberty of calling your captain yesterday, and got his okay. So, if you've got your uniform here, it'll save us a trip down to the station."

"Why me?"

Another smile, this one almost as mean. "Because you look like you've got more than a couple of brain cells to rub together. Because you've been working on the case. Besides, what else are you going to do? Patrol by yourself for another two weeks?"

Mike waited a long, slow minute before answering. "I don't have a clean uniform," he said at last. "It's at the station."

"Okay." Max walked up the stoop, and opened the door, holding it for him. "So we'll get a move on. After you."

What could he do? Mike led Max back up the eight flights, ignoring the other man's puffing and complaining, and then opened the door of the apartment for him, hoping to God he'd remembered to do some basic cleaning the last week. Not that he gave a damn about what Greevey thought of his housekeeping, but he'd just as soon not have those sharp eyes picking over the various aids to male-male sex that Mike kept in his bedroom.

The place looked fine. The bed was unmade, but that was par for the course, and the nightstand clutter could have belonged to a nun. Mike gestured to the couch and chairs, and went into the kitchen. "I'm going to make coffee," he announced. "You want some?"

"Sure." Greevey was already making himself at home on one of the chairs, looking around at the books and furniture. "Kinda small," he said.

"I'm moving soon," Mike told him, not even bothering with annoyance this time. "I'm taking over my partner's place on the West Side."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah, well, it was mostly luck." Mike thought a second. "Bad luck," he said, and shrugged. "It's farther away from the precinct, but I can live with that."

"You could transfer," Greevey suggested. "The Three One's a good place." He folded his hands over his stomach. "So's the Twenty-Seventh."

"Nah. Not worth it." Mike finished putting coffee and water into the coffeemaker, and turned it on. "I'm going to take a shower. Be right back."

He didn't dawdle in the shower. Among other things, he wasn't entirely comfortable leaving a relative stranger, especially another cop, free to rummage through his place. Cops were nosy, and they noticed things. A nasty combination.

In record time, Mike put the finishing touches on his shaving, and wrapped a towel around his waist to come out into the bedroom. Greevey had gotten up and was standing by the kitchen table, idly turning the pages of Mike's criminology textbook, a wry smile on his face.

"Picking up tips?" Mike inquired on his way to the closet, and got a sidelong look.

"This what they teaching these days?" Greevey flipped the book shut. "No wonder we're so hard up to solve cases." He moved back into the living room, seating himself on the couch once more, leaning back to lace his hands behind his head. "Smart move, skipping class. Best thing you'll probably do for yourself."

Ignoring the fact that, sitting on the couch, Greevey had an unimpeded view of the whole bed alcove, Mike let the towel drop and started pulling on clothes. "Yeah," he said derisively, pulling up his jeans and threading his belt through the loops. "And after I flunk out, I can flunk the exam, too."

"Hey, so far you're passing the practical." Greevey glanced at the kitchen as the coffeemaker finally gave a last wheeze, and without being asked got up to find mugs and fill them. "That's the important part."

Mike regarded him thoughtfully as he handed him a steaming cup of coffee. "Is that what this is? A test?" He put the coffee down on the nightstand and finished buttoning his shirt.

"No." Greevey took a scalding sip of coffee. "This is a case. And there's no make-up for skipping class." He gulped another mouthful of coffee, and waved the half-empty mug in Mike's direction. "Come on. Get your shoes on. We've wasted enough time."

Mike found the shoes, but he refused to gulp his coffee. It was another ten minutes before they were heading downstairs again, Max looking at his watch and grumbling.

"What's the big hurry?" Mike asked as he slid into the passenger seat of the old Chrysler. "What are we doing, anyway?"

"Finding the connection between Mimi Marston and Louise Tourneur," Greevey said promptly, coaxing the engine to start. "So far, none of the usuals pan out, so we've got to get creative."

"And if that doesn't work?"

He shrugged. "You got me."

Mike turned away, looking out the window at the buildings rolling by, looking at the blank, cheerless facades and wondering what crimes were going on behind them that morning. Crimes that he wouldn't be there to stop, because he was sitting in a five-year-old Chrysler with a middle-aged detective, trying to track down the clues to solve a single case. Wondering which would bother him more to fail in doing.

"Greevey," he said abruptly, speaking before he could talk himself out of the idea. "I was just thinking---"

"Max."

"Huh?" Mike looked over at him.

"Call me Max," Greevey repeated. "I'm going to spend all day with you, it's Max. And it's Mike, right?"

"Yeah."

Greevey waited a second. "So. You were saying?"

"It's something we talked about last night. About this not being the first time. Or the second time. I was thinking then that it might happen again. But now I'm thinking that maybe it happened before. I mean, we almost missed it this time."

"Good point." Greevey mulled that over. "Tell you what. We'll work the connection between the girls today. If we get nothing, then we'll start looking at old cases tomorrow. Sound good?"

Mike glanced over, surprised. "How long are you gonna shanghai me, Max?"

"As long as it takes, Mike. As long as it takes."

\-----

They went to visit the Tourneur's first. Unlike the Marstons, they had stayed in the house where it happened. While Max talked to the parents downstairs, Mike went up to look over the crime scene. The tape was gone, and it was clear that some attempt had been made to restore order, but there was still a faint, spreading stain on the carpet under the bare bed, and the top mattress had been removed, leaving only a rusty smudge down the side of the box spring. The room had one window, barred, that led onto a fire escape, the bars fastened with a hasp lock that looked brand new. According to Max's reports, the murderer had clipped the lock with bolt cutters to gain entry. _An outside job, like the Marstons,_ Mike thought with satisfaction.

When he came back downstairs, the Tourneurs were still talking to Max, dry-eyed, numb, reciting the facts with dull, rote precision. Mike took a seat, pulling out his notebook. They barely noticed him, keeping their attention focused on Greevey. He was leading them through the case again, covering old territory, working slowly from the familiar to the unfamiliar, easing them into the questions that would require them to break from the comfort of repetition, and start to think again.

"About Louise," Max finally said. "She did well at school?"

"Oh, yes." Mrs. Tourneur nodded. "She was a bright girl. Always brought home straight A's."

"So no problems of any kind. No learning disability, no speech problems, nothing like that."

Slowly, Mrs. Tourneur blinked. "No," she said. "Not really."

"Not really?" Max leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Tourneur looked at her husband. "Well, she used to have a stutter. A bad one. But she was working through it. Just this last year, she made incredible improvements. Her teachers . . ." She trailed off, and her face began to crumple. "They said--"

"Shh. It's okay." Her husband put an arm around her shoulders, stopping the words. He patted her for a moment, then turned to Max, his face darkening in suspicion. "Do you think that's why he--" He had to stop himself, but his eyes still asked the question. Begging Greevey to say no.

"I don't know," Max told him. "But we have to look into everything." He closed the notebook and stood up. "You've been very helpful," he said. "I hate to impose, but I was wondering if you had a picture of your daughter that I could have. The more recent, the better."

"Why?" Mr. Tourneur swallowed. "Because of that other little girl?"

Max nodded. "Yeah. Would you mind?"

Mrs. Tourneur stood up. "No. I have her school pictures right here. They always send so many . . ." She bit her lip, and turned away. She searched briefly in a drawer, and produced a sheet of duplicate pictures. She handed the whole thing to Greevey, not bothering to separate them. "Here. Take them," she said, and walked off quickly, her hands pressed to her mouth.

"Thanks, Mr. Tourneur," Max said gently, and tucked the pictures into his pocket. "I'll be in touch."

Out on the street, Max took the photos out of his pocket, glanced at them, and handed them to Mike. The picture was a typical school pose, the girl's arms propped on a fake fence railing, standing in front of an equally fake autumn scene. A red apple listed by her elbow, impossibly red. Probably glued there, Mike thought cynically. Louise was smiling dutifully, showing even, white teeth, her blond hair hanging down over her shoulders. She looked happy. Mike carefully put the pictures away. "What now?"

Max wedged himself behind the wheel of the car, digging in his pocket for his keys. "Now, we go back to the Marstons. I want to look at the scene."

Mike thought he'd probably seen enough of that blood-stained bedroom to last a lifetime, but he followed Max upstairs anyway, steeling himself from the memory. Unlike the Tourneurs, the Marstons had made no effort to clean the room yet. The rusty-spotted sheets were still on the bed, the walls and floor splattered with dark splotches of Mimi's blood. _Couldn't bring themselves to come in,_ Mike thought gloomily, and walked over to inspect the closed window. There was a sturdy lock, but if John Marston was right, the window had probably been left open that day.

"Another fire escape," Max remarked, leaning next to him to peer out the streaked glass. "No bars, either, window left open."

"Piece of cake," Mike said grimly. "Well, that's one more connection, method of entry."

Max only grunted, clearly not impressed. He took his time in the room, poking through drawers, shuffling papers, even crawling under the bed to look at the boxes stacked along the wall. Eventually, Mike had had enough of the blood-spattered walls, and went downstairs and outside, around to the fire escape that led up to Mimi's window. It seemed to be in good shape, the ladder swinging easily and freely. No rust, not a squeak. Mike stared at it thoughtfully for a long moment, then went back inside.

"Hey, Max. Max!"

After a second, Max's head appeared from the bedroom door. "Yeah?"

"Do you remember if the Crime Scene Unit went over the fire escape? The ladder?"

"I don't know. You were here, not me." Max came out into the hall. "You find something?"

"Maybe." Mike took Max outside, and showed him the fresh grease on the hinges of the ladder. "When's the last time your landlord greased your fire escape?"

Max stared up at Mimi's window, his face unreadable. "Let's call CSU. Get someone to dust this whole thing." He turned in a circle, looking up at the windows facing into the alley. "Did you canvass the buildings next door? The ones facing this alley."

"Yeah. But we didn't ask about the fire escape. Just about if they saw anything that day."

"Hmm." Max turned away again. "We'll wait and see. If CSU turns up anything, we'll try it again. Meanwhile, we've still got to find the connection between these two girls."

If the connection existed, they didn't find it that day. Mike spent the rest of the morning with Greevey at Mimi's school, getting copies of everything the administration had, including a list of employees, teachers, and even students. All fifteen hundred. They talked to the school nurse, the principal, Mimi's teachers, and all her friends that they could find, most of whom hadn't seen her all summer. None of them had ever heard of Louise Tourneur, and displaying her picture only got them a string of negative headshakes. Max wheedled a friendly secretary in the office into checking transfers and employment records, trying to discover if anyone transferred from or to Louise's school, and again came up with nothing. They procured a photocopy of Mimi's yearbook picture from the year before, and headed over to Louise's school, for an afternoon of reruns of the same results. By the end of the day, Mike was feeling thoroughly discouraged.

"So much for brilliant theories," he said, plopping himself tiredly next to Max at the lunch counter they'd chosen for their supper. "I didn't think it was possible for two people to have absolutely nothing in common. No one, not even the janitors, knew both those girls."

But Max only shook his head. "Someone knew them both," he said grimly. "And we're going to find him." He took a long gulp of the coffee the waitress poured for him, and pulled out his notebook, half-filled with a day's worth of nothing. He opened it on top of the counter, and started leafing through the pages. "We've done all we can with friends and family for now," he said.

"So, what? Tomorrow we start looking for other victims?"

"That's the plan." Max flipped the notebook shut and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "I'll go over to Forensics, see if they turned anything up on that ladder. I'll call you if I find anything. Otherwise, I'll meet you in the records room tomorrow morning. Bring a dust filter."

"I'll be there," Mike promised.

\-----

"I got one. Maybe." Mike tossed the file into the pathetically small stack at the center of the table, and yawned.

"Great. That makes what, four possibilities?"

"Five." Mike yawned again, and reached for the next case.

Greevey sat back, scrubbing his hands over his face. "You make it home last night?" he asked, and Mike glared at him.

"Is that any of your business?" he asked, not quite able to suppress the snarl.

Max only shrugged. "Just making conversation."

Mike turned back to the files. "What, about my sex life?"

"Hey, of the two of us, whose sex life is going to be more interesting?"

_Right now, I'm betting on yours,_ Mike thought. Aloud, he said, "Well, for your information, I stayed tucked up in my very own bed, by myself, all last night. Happy, Mom?"

"Sure."

Mike discarded the file he was reading, and got another, suppressing yet another yawn. Yeah, he'd spent the night in his own bed. In his own bed, alone. Staring up at the ceiling. Wishing to God that he wasn't alone. Ben hadn't called, and he wasn't sure if he was relieved or depressed about it. He'd brought himself off, though, thinking about Ben, thinking about the last time they'd made love, what it had been like to have Ben inside him. Not surprisingly, it had only made things worse.

"Hey!" Greevey sat up abruptly, slapping a file open on the table. "I think I got one, Mikey. For real."

Mike leaned over, peering over his shoulder. "Female victim, fourteen years old, blond hair, blue eyes, so far so good."

But Max was already further down the page, running his finger along the details of the crime. "Suffocated, in her bedroom. Left foot severed, after death."

"I'll be damned." Mike took the folder from him, scanning the pages while Max copied the names of the investigating detectives. "When was this?"

"Four years ago." Max slapped his pen down with a flourish. "That's one. Let's see how many others the department's missed.

By the end of the morning, they had a small stack of possibles, thirteen cases of blond teenagers murdered in the past ten years. Most were, Mike knew, hopelessly dissimilar, but Max insisted on pulling each one out, just in case. But next to them, in a careful, ordered pile, were three folders that were more than just possibles. Roberta Green. Beatrice Watson. Susan Peele. When they were done, the two men sat back, looking at the files, and then at each other, not having to read each other's faces to know what was going through both their minds.

"Five," Mike finally said, unable to hide the disgust in his voice. "Five serial killings since 1980, and we never even knew it."

"Five different precincts," Max said tiredly. "Over a year between most of them. Different method each time." He started going through the files. "Suffocated. Shot. Stabbed." He shook his head. "No prints, no blood, no hairs, no fibers. Careful guy."

Mike tipped his chair back, stretching his spine against the hard wooden seat. "So, what's the plan, Detective?"

Max swept his arm in a broad circle. "Back to the beginning," he said, and started gathering up the folders. "We try to find what these _five_ girls had in common. And maybe this time, we'll get lucky." He nodded to Mike's notebook. "You get the names of the detectives on those other cases?" Mike nodded. "Good. Then we'll start there."

\-----

"Roberta Green." The voice drifted up, muffled, from behind the battered desk of Sergeant Horace Edwards. "Fourteen years old, killed in her own damn bedroom." He finally straightened up, clutching a dusty file folder, which he blew off apologetically before handing it over to Greevey. "I kept a copy," he said by way of explanation. "Even after I transferred. Couldn't stop working on it. I finally let it rest about a year ago, haven't looked at it since."

"And the Marston case didn't ring the bell? Or the Tourneur case?" Mike knew he sounded harsh, but he didn't care. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, Max giving him a raised eyebrow, but the older detective didn't comment. Edwards, though, flushed red.

"Hey," he said roughly. "I got a full plate these days. I've got enough to do keeping up with my own cases. I don't have time to go around solving everyone else's for them."

"No one's saying you should," Max said blandly. He had the file open, and was scanning through the autopsy report. "About the severed foot. You never found it?"

Edwards turned away from Mike, calming himself with a visible effort. "No," he said shortly. "It was taken from the scene."

"Do you know if there was anything wrong with it? A birth defect, deformity?"

Edwards looked at him oddly. "Yeah. Club foot. How did you know?"

Max exchanged a look with Mike. "We think it might be part of the pattern," Max said. "But keep that under your hat, for now."

Edwards nodded, but he looked skeptical. "I'll be truthful," he said in a burst of honestly. "I always liked the parents for this one. History of abuse, impatience with the girl's deformity. Her father called her   
'Gimp,' to her face." He hesitated. "But if there are others, I guess maybe they didn't. I'll tell you this, though. They weren't any too busted up about it." He cleared his throat, turning to arrange the already perfectly aligned pens on his desk. "One reason I guess I couldn't let go. I figured somebody ought to give a damn whether she lived or died."

Max stood up, the folder in his hand. "Thanks for your time, Detective. Mind if I take this?"

From the expression on Edwards' face, he did mind, but after a moment he waved a hand. "Sure. Go ahead." He laughed harshly. "I sure as hell haven't done any good with it the last four years."

"Thanks," Max said again. "We'll be in touch if we learn anything."

"Yeah." Edwards didn't look up. "Yeah, you do that."

When they were outside, Mike took a deep breath, glad to be clear of the stifling air inside the station. "Man," he said quietly. "You think he was obsessed enough?"

"Obsessed in the wrong way," Max said, almost angrily. "He was so fixated on the parents, he never thought about seeing if it was part of a pattern."

"Hey, you can't exactly blame him. If the parents were beating her up . . ."

"Sure. Maybe. Maybe they suffocate her. It happens. But not the mutilation. That was cold. That was pre-meditated." Max took a deep breath of his own, and put a hand on Mike's back. "Come on. Let's get some lunch."

They ate Chinese at a place not far from the station. No sooner had they sat down than Max was up again, demanding a quarter from Mike and then vanishing in the direction of the bathroom. He was back before Mike had finished his soup, his face beaming. "Just got the CSU report. There were a billion prints on that fire escape, which is to be expected, right? But in the grease, right at the ladder joint, they got a full forefinger and full thumbprint." He slapped Mike on the back, and sat down.

"Great," Mike said around a mouthful of rice. "Now all we have to do is find the guy."

"Five girls, Mikey. There's gotta be something to connect them." Max picked up his spoon. "Eat up. This afternoon, it's back to the desks."

"I can hardly wait."

\-----

"You really think we're going to find a connection?" Mike's voice sounded odd in his ears. It had been a long evening, the two of them bent over Greevey's desk at the Thirty-Third Precinct, Mike sitting astride a borrowed interview chair to help sort through the piled notes. They had them all, each of the five girls' cases laid out on top of Max's desk, everything that might possibly lead to a connection piled in the center. So far, the pile was very, very slim.

Without waiting for an answer, Mike stood up and stretched, leaving Max to pore over the autopsy report on Beatrice Watson. His back was killing him, and he reached his hands high over his head, leaning up on his toes until his back popped. "Max, it's nearly eight o' clock. How long are we going to be here?"

"Hey, I don't see any chains on your ankles," Max said mildly, reaching for another report. "You got somewhere else to be?"

"No," Mike said presently, when he could trust his voice again. _Not anymore,_ he finished to himself. The thought was so depressing that he sat down and grabbed a folder at random, opening it and staring fiercely at the words, as if the clinical, cold description of the brutal murder of a fifteen year old girl would erase the thought from his head. Nice try.

The report he'd seized was Susan Peele. Fifteen. Shot in the family room of her house, carried to the bedroom and left on the bed. Right eye removed. There was a picture in the file, another yearbook shot. She was smiling at the camera, her mouth curved into a false expression of happiness. A black patch covered her left eye. Mike stared at the picture for a long time. Then he took a second look, and felt his spine tingle, his blood starting to run cold.

"Max," he said slowly. "Tell me I'm crazy."

Something in his voice gave him away. Max's head snapped up, his eyes searching Mike's face. "You're crazy," he said with deceptive mildness. "Now tell me why you're crazy."

Mike laid the picture in front of him. "Look at this."

Max leaned close. "Why? Which one is this?"

"Susan Peele." Mike left him squinting at the photo, while he rummaged through the other files, and laid the pictures in front of Max. One by one. Roberta Green. Mimi Marston. Louise Tourneur. Beatrice Watson. "Look at them, Max."

Max did, scanning over each one, then leaned back, shaking his head. "Whatever it is, I'm not seeing it, Mike."

"The pictures. The background." Mike leaned closer, tapping Louise's picture. "Look at that scene. And look at Susan Peele."

"So? It's a school picture, Mike. Fake backdrop, they made hundreds of them."

"Max, just bear with me. We've been beating our brains out for two straight days trying to connect these girls. Well, here's a connection."

"Their yearbook pictures?" Max was openly skeptical. "That's not even a long shot, Logan. Everybody has pictures taken. It's like connecting them because they used the same brand of toothpaste."

Mike looked away, feeling his mouth tighten in anger. _I don't need this,_ he thought. "Fine," he said shortly, and stood up. "You want my opinions, but only so long as they're the same as yours, right?" He picked up his stick, and slid it into his belt. "Next time you want help, go get a talking dummy. I'm out of here." He stalked out, and Max didn't try to stop him. When Mike turned to close the door, though, he glanced back to see Greevey staring at him, an almost comical look of puzzled surprise on his face. Good. Let him figure out what an asshole he was all by himself. Mike slammed the door, and left.

\-----

The next morning, the phone jolted Mike out of a sound sleep. He didn't have a phone by his bed, and it took him several tries to get up, stagger across the room, and fumble the phone from the cradle. When he did, the best he could manage was an outraged mumble. "What?!"

"Hey, you're home. Batting a thousand."

Mike turned, peeling his eyes open to squint blearily at the clock across the room. Almost ten. Too late for righteous indignation about being woken up. "This is supposed to be my day off, Greevey," he growled into the phone. "This had better be pretty damn good."

"Oh, it is." Greevey sounded tired, his voice hoarse, but there was triumph in the weary tones, and Mike began to pay attention. "Hey, I've been up since seven, waking other people up. I saved you for last."

"Thanks, Max." Knowing he was never getting back to sleep, Mike dragged the phone towards the kitchen, and the coffeemaker. "What do you want?"

There was a long pause. When Greevey spoke again, his voice was serious, and grave. "You may be right, Mike."

Coffee in the filter, water in the pot, flip the switch. "Right about what?" Mike asked tiredly.

"The pictures." There was a faint rustle of paper. "I wasted half the night with those damn files, got home at midnight and went to sleep, wracking my head about what brought those girls together. I woke up at five, and I realized that it wouldn't hurt to just rule it out, that the pictures had nothing to do with it. Humor the rookie."

"Gee, Max, I--I don't know what to say."

"Shut up," Max said pleasantly. "Anyway, I called Mrs. Tourneur this morning, got her to find the envelope she took those pictures from. There was an address there for the processing company, the people that the parents have to pay for the pictures."

"Uh-huh," Mike yawned. "Can't be more than a few hundred schools that use the same plant."

"Right. And that plant keeps a record of the studios that send them the film to be processed. Now, the place doesn't open until ten, but I called Mimi Marston's school, and got someone who remembered the name of the studio who did their pictures last year. Paaragon Studios. So, next I call Louise's school. They're a little more efficient, they've still got the guy's card. Bingo. Paaragon Portraits." He paused. "You were right. I was wrong."

Mike rubbed a hand over his face. "Well, let's not get carried away," he said, hating himself for even saying it, but knowing that he had to. "It might not mean anything."

"Well, we're about to find out what the DA thinks. That's why I'm calling, to tell you to get in your blues and get your butt over to Hogan Place before noon."

The mention of the District Attorney did what ten cups of coffee could never have done to jolt Mike into instant wakefulness. "Whoa, whoa. What for?"

"I've got a meeting with Ben Stone. He's the one that put me on to this, and I want him to review the case and apply for the subpoena for the processing plant's records. I don't want to risk this one getting turned down, Mikey."

Neither did Mike, but for a second, he wanted nothing more than to blurt out some excuse, make up some reason not to go. If he didn't go, though, he'd never see the conclusion of the case. Right now, he realized, that was more important than giving Ben Stone his damned space. "I'll be there," he said, and was amazed that his voice actually sounded normal.

"Good," Max said briskly, oblivious to the churning emotions on the other end of the line. "So, I'll meet you there." Max hung up.

\-----

Mike met Greevey on the steps of One Hogan Place, half-tempted to chicken out after all, to find a reason to stay out here and not have to go upstairs. He might have, too, if the other man hadn't shoved a handful of folders at him and pushed him in the direction of the door. "I just got a beep from Forensics," he said breathlessly. "May be good news. Go on, you start with Stone, and I'll call."

"Me? Max, this is--"

"Important," Max finished firmly, and gave him another push. "Go on. Stone hates to be kept waiting."

_I know,_ Mike almost snapped, but bit his tongue, literally, to keep the words in. He was getting very tired of being pushed around. _One good thing,_ he thought grimly as he stalked upstairs to Ben's office, _when this case is over, it'll be the end of taking orders from Max Greevey._

The anger kept him moving almost all the way to Ben's door, but once he was poised there, hand raised to knock, it hit him, for real, just what he was about to do. Transference, he decided. Or maybe projection. Whichever. Using his anger at Greevey to stop himself from thinking about Ben. Neat trick. Almost worked. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Go in, pretend that nothing happened? Go in, pretend that everything had happened? He stood in the hall for a second, and breathed. In. Out. _It's Assistant District Attorney Stone,_ he told himself. _A lawyer. A prosecutor. Not your friend, not your lover, not even your ex-lover. This is business. Anything else can wait until later._

Like hell.

By some miracle, his hand didn't actually shake as he knocked. He closed his eyes, and tried to close his ears, as that all-too-familiar voice called from within, "Come in."

One more deep breath, and he went in, letting the door shut behind him, not daring to risk that any of this would be overheard in the hall. If, that is, there was anything to overhear. Judging from the startled, closed expression on Ben's face, the latter was becoming likely.

"Max had to make a phone call," Mike blurted, shocked when his words fell into the stretching silence. _Very nice,_ he told himself. _Smooth, suave._

"Oh." Ben's voice was almost comically neutral, so bland that it was almost a scream. Mike knew exactly how he felt. He stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Here's the files. Greevey said I should go over them with you, until he gets here."

Ben took the folders from him, as careful not to make contact with Mike's hands as Mike was not to make contact with him. He stared down at the folders for a moment, looking at them as if he'd never seen anything like them before. "Thank you," he said, and looked as though he would have gone on, then stopped himself. Slowly, carefully, he set the stack of files down on the table, and seated himself with exquisite care on the edge of his desk, hitching up one long, slim leg over the corner of the polished wood. His hands came up to remove his glasses, and he folded them in his hands, looking down at the floor as he sighed deeply.

"Mike," he said quietly, and Mike felt his throat tighten.

_Don't,_ he pleaded silently. _Not here, not now. Please._

As if he'd heard, Ben's head came up, and he searched Mike's face for a long thoughtful moment, whatever words he'd meant to offer remaining unspoken. Instead, he reached out a hand, palm up, the long, slim fingers spread, waiting. Mike just stared at it, wondering what he was supposed to do. Knowing what he wanted to do. Before he could even send the conscious message, though, his own hand was rising to meet Ben's, fingers sliding over his in a soft, longing touch.

The contact was electric, both their hands gripping with sudden, quiet desperation. Mike squeezed his fingers, feeling Ben's palm lock smoothly around his, warm and soft, strong and slim. He squeezed again, and felt Ben's hand return it, the knuckles almost white with the strength of the grip.

"I've missed you," Ben said quietly, and Mike had to close his eyes. "I can't tell you--" He broke off, and sighed again. His fingers loosened, moving over the back of Mike's hand, caressing, gentle. "I'd like to see you," he said.

Two seconds ago, Mike would have sworn that he was incapable of speech, but somehow he was forcing the words out, his voice oddly hoarse, but managing to be heard nonetheless. "I want to see you, too," he said, too awash with relief to say it any better. "Ben . . . I want to work this out."

"So do I." Their hands were still locked together, neither of them willing to let go, not even to move into the embrace that Mike suddenly craved. He didn't dare, though. Not here, with the blinds still half-open, and not with Max likely to come in any second.

As if reading his thoughts, Ben lowered his voice, speaking quickly. "Tonight? I've got plans, but I can break them."

Mike's mouth was dry. "I can't," he croaked, hating every syllable. "This case, I don't know . . ."

"It's all right." Ben's hand tightened again. "Mike, I'm sorry. This is--" Then his hand was sliding from Mike's, his face apologetic as he slid from the desk and faced the door. An instant later, it opened, and Mike turned, glad to have the extra second to compose himself before Greevey walked in.

"Max." Ben brought a smile to his face, and stepped forward to shake Greevey's hand. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise." Greevey shook his hand. "Sorry," he said to Mike. "False alarm, just some yobbo about an old case." He turned back to Ben. "Mike fill you in yet?"

"Not entirely," Ben said smoothly, his quick eyes dropping to the files in his hand. "You said over the phone that you believe that there's a pattern to the victims that's been overlooked."

"Right." Quickly, Max sketched what they knew about the five victims, detailing the physical abnormalities that seemed to have been the ultimate target of the attack. "It's not much more of a pattern," he admitted, "but at least we know what made him pick these particular girls. And now we think we might know how."

Ben nodded, but he was still frowning, puzzled. "You said that you were going to subpoena a film processing company."

"Right. We believe that the victims were connected through their school portraits. We know that two of the girls had their pictures taken by the same studio the year before they were killed."

Ben's brow wrinkled. "That's pretty tenuous, Max," he said. "A lot of kids get their pictures taken."

"We're hoping to narrow it down with the processing company's records," Max told him. "I called them right before I came over, and they said they'd work on getting the information I needed. But it might take a while, and I want to make sure that everything's by the numbers."

Now Ben was flipping through the file, groping for his glasses and slipping them back on his nose. "I don't see," he said slowly, "much other evidence of a connection between these girls, apart from the patterns you've described. Different schools, different neighborhoods . . . How solid is this?"

First Max, now Ben. Mike was beginning to be sorry he'd ever had that flash of inspiration. "It's better than nothing," he heard himself say sharply, and saw both men give him identical startled looks.

Slowly, Ben removed his glasses. "'Better than nothing?'" he said mildly. "I'm afraid that won't go very far towards convincing a jury."

"Think about it," Max urged. "What better way to pick your victims? The studio collects the name and address of every student, and for five minutes he's got every kid all to himself. If, like we think, he picks girls with some kind of deformity, that's all the time he'd need to single them out."

"Good lord." Ben looked vaguely sick. He set aside the folder, and laced his hands on his knee. "Do you have anything else?" he asked. "Anything at all?"

Mike looked over at Max, and met the other man's gaze for a brief, sympathetic moment. "Not really," Max finally admitted. "If this doesn't pan out . . ." He shrugged. "God help us."

Ben stood up. "Then I wish you both good luck. I'll see about expediting that subpoena for you."

"Thanks." Max shook Ben's hand, and headed for the door. Mike hesitated, feeling the moment slipping away. This was too much. He couldn't just leave like this, not when they'd been so close to reaching that longed-for understanding. He had to talk to him, just for another minute. He suddenly thought of a way.

"I'll meet you out front, Max," he said, speaking to the back of his head as he followed him through the door, loud enough, he hoped, for Ben to hear. "I gotta use the can." Max merely waved, and kept going. Mike headed for the men's room.

\-----

It took all of Ben's self-control to wait until Max had vanished around the corner before ducking out the side door and hurrying down the hall Mike had taken. He paused outside the door, offering up a brief prayer to whatever angels were listening that the room would be empty, and went in.

Mike was waiting for him, pacing nervously up and down in front of the stalls, and he whirled as the door opened. When he saw it was only Ben, his face relaxed in relief. Then Mike was coming towards him, covering the distance between them in two long strides to grab Ben's shoulders and push him against the wall, crushing his mouth to his.

Ben had never been kissed by a policeman in full uniform before. There were sharp edges and angles everywhere, poking him and forcing out what little air there was left in his body after Mike's kiss. His hands, reaching up in a desperate effort to keep himself on his feet, ran over any number of deadly, sharp, jingling objects. Gun, cuffs, keys, nightstick. He finally got his arms around Mike's shoulders, pushing himself closer to the searching, brutal kiss, and heard a clatter as Mike's hat dropped to the floor. Finally, Mike pulled away with a faint jingle, breathing hard, his arms still wrapped around Ben's body. "That," he said hoarsely, "is how I feel about not seeing you tonight."

Stunned, Ben could only nod, gulping for air as he fought for the words to say how much he agreed with him. But then the hot, frantic lips were fastening to his again, and Mike shoved forward, pinning him to the wall behind him, his belt digging into Ben's waist, the nightstick jammed awkwardly between their bodies. Ben's breath left his lungs with a gasp, and he let his arms fall, hands groping down until he could curve his fingers around Mike's ass. Ben yanked him closer, heedless of the fact that they were in a public place, and not caring one bit if Adam Schiff himself should walk in. All that mattered was the hard, lean body pressed against him, the mouth frantically devouring him, the hands that were even now groping under his shirt, yanking the soft linen from his trousers and sliding up his bare sides. Then the mouth was leaving his again, whispering into his neck, kissing him again. "And that's how I feel about not seeing you ever again." Mike kissed him again, pulling him up, ravaging his mouth, then tore away once more. "I'm going to be free Saturday night," he said. "And you goddamn well better be, too." One more scalding kiss, not waiting for an answer, and then he was gone.

\-----

Mike paused in the hall, running his fingers through his hair, quickly checking his uniform to make sure everything was in place. He resettled his belt around his hips, dusted off his cap and put it under his arm, and set off again. His face felt hot, and flushed, and his lips still tingled warmly, but he doubted that anyone's first thought on seeing him would be that he'd gotten that way necking with an Assistant District Attorney in the men's room. At least he hoped not.

Ben still wanted him, and not just in the sexual sense of the word, either. He wanted to talk, wanted to work things out. Wanted Mike back in his life. It was the first time in a long time, the first time since that disastrous night with Ricky Caruso, that Mike felt good believing that. Now all he had to do was survive the next two days, somehow. Then they'd see.

By the time he reached the street, some of the flush had faded from his face, and a surreptitious check of his appearance in the polished steel of the elevator door showed enough of a sober, solid policeman to pass muster. He expected at least one crack from Max about how long it had taken him, but thinking it over as he approached, he realized that, objectively, the whole scene in the bathroom had taken very little time. _Quality over quantity,_ he thought, with understandable satisfaction, and had to make an effort to wipe the smirk off his face before walking up to where Max waited, impatiently, on the steps of the building. Max took off as soon as Mike came abreast of him, barely acknowledging him as he headed for the garage where they'd parked Max's car.

"What now?" Mike asked. "Do we wait for the plant to call back?"

"We could." Max paused on the street, waiting for a truck to go by before crossing the pavement. "Or we could try to get a jump start on what we already think we know."

"Which is?"

Max lifted his hands, holding them apart in front of him. "We've got a fingerprint," he said, turning his right hand palm up, "and we've got a name." He repeated the gesture with the left hand, then brought his two hands together. "Let's see if we can't make a match."

\-----

"Got him!"

Mike started awake as the folder hit the table in front of him, his eyes snapping open blearily to stare up at Max's triumphant face. "What?" he asked. "Got who?"

"Who do you think? Paar." Max came the rest of the way into the interview room, and slapped his hand down on the folder. "Perfect match on the thumbprint, decent on the partial finger."

While Greevey talked, Mike sat up, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus on the file in front of him. "He's got a record?"

"Trespassing, you believe that?" Greevey sat down in the chair opposite Mike's, pushing aside a stack of files to make room for him to slide Paar's towards him. "Twenty years ago, while he was at NYU. Some college prank. The charges were dropped, but they got his fingerprints."

"Hey. Lucky for us." Mike yawned, and glanced at his watch, then frowned and tapped the face. After six. That couldn't be right. The last time he'd checked his watch, shortly after they'd commandeered this room, it hadn't even been three o' clock. He couldn't have slept the whole afternoon away.

"Sorry I didn't wake you up," Greevey said, reading his mind again. "But there wasn't any point, not until we got the prints back."

The back of his neck was beginning to ache, and Mike rubbed it, glaring at Greevey. "Yeah, except that this is still supposed to be my day off. I could have gone home."

"What, and missed all this?" Greevey grinned at him.

"Oh, yeah. Sleeping in a crappy interview chair, my idea of fun." But under his grumbles, Mike was still aware of the adrenaline beginning to pump again, his body recognizing the beginning of the chase. "So what about Paar? Do we go after him now?"

Max made a face. "Not yet. The processing company is cooperating, but they won't have the list of Paar's orders until tomorrow morning. We've got him connected to Mimi's murder now, but I want to be sure we've got a trail for all the others. No way is this guy getting off for any of them."

"So what do we do now?"

"Go home. Soon as the processing company calls us, we'll apply for the warrant." Max took a deep breath. "And then we go get the son of a bitch."

\-----

The first thing Mike did when he got home was call Ben. He said he had plans, but there was always the chance that Mike could catch him.

"Hello, you've reached the Stone residence--"

Mike hung up. Just as well. He sat back on the sofa, tapping his fingers on his leg while he thought. An entire Friday night, all to himself. Whoopee.

Before he thought about it, Mike reached for the phone again, then stopped as he realized that he'd automatically dialed the first digits of Ricky's number. It was a habit he'd never even thought twice about, and he was surprised at the strength of the twinge of pain as he dropped the phone back on the cradle. There was another thing he'd have to get used to.

He could, he supposed, go to a bar and catch the Yankees, have a few beers and a pizza or something. But the prospect didn't appeal much without someone to share it with. Instead, he reached for the phone a third time and dialed another familiar number. Katy picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Katy? Hi, it's Mike."

There was a long pause. "Mike, Mike," she said thoughtfully. "I had a brother named Mike, I think . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry I haven't called."

She laughed, and he felt a little of the sick knot that had tightened his gut all day relax away. "Yeah, and I've been breaking down your door, myself." Her tone changed. "How are you, Mike?"

He breathed in. "I've been better. You?"

"I've been worse." She paused a second. "Look, I'm about to put supper on the table. Why don't you come over?" Her voice became amused. "I'm assuming that you didn't call your sister on a Friday night because you've got a hot date lined up."

"Nothing gets by you, Katy Flynn. I'll be there in half an hour."

\-----

Mike left his sister's around midnight, slightly wired from two cups of the bottomless black brew that passed for coffee in the Flynn household, but feeling nonetheless as though he might actually sleep. It had turned into a long talk, Mike a little surprised at how many things had filled the mere two weeks since he'd last seen his sister. Even with him carefully skirting what had been happening with Ben, it had taken them a while to feel caught up again with each others' lives. And he realized, too, with a pang of guilt, that he hadn't even told Katy of his plans to move, or of the reason. Too caught up in everything else.

Katy had noticed his stricken look, and had reached over to put a hand on his arm. "Mikey," she said. "The reason God made time was so that everything wouldn't happen at once. Don't start trying to out-do God's schedule." Then she'd flushed, and taken her hand away.

But Mike had laughed. "I'll remember," he'd promised, and the moment had passed.

It was a cool night, the moon nearly full. Nice and romantic, he thought, with a returning pang of lonliness. Katy had respected the invisible boundaries of their conversation, blithely neglecting to ask her usual questions about his love life, but he wasn't sure that it had actually helped. He hadn't had the courage, yet, to tell her about Ben.

The message light on his machine was winking like a firefly when he arrived, and he braced himself for the deluge of messages as he pressed the button. Two "Call me's" from Max, followed by a "never mind, I'll call you tomorrow." A third call from a recent girlfriend, who was turning out to be unusually persistent. And then, finally, a mellow, drawling voice that he'd heard in his head all day. Five words, but they were enough.

"Saturday is good for me."

\-----

When the phone rang the next morning, Mike peeled an eye open, checked the clock, and reached for where he'd moved the phone the night before. "Hello, Max," he said into the receiver, eyes closed.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Lucky guess." Mike swung himself up, rubbing his hand over his face. "What you got?"

"We got him, Mike." Max's voice was fierce with triumph. "Company called me back at six this morning. One of their guys stayed up all night, on his own time, tracking down every order Paar ever made with them. And we hit it, Mikey. We hit the big time."

"So, don't keep me in suspense."

There was a faint rustle of paper, and Mike could almost see the frown on Max's face as he read over his notes. "Mr. Paar's studio is a one-man operation, no partners, which makes it easier. He specializes in portraits. You know, family shots, baby pictures, that sort of thing. He doesn't usually do school stuff, except that he fills in for another company when they get overbooked."

"Max, please tell me--"

"1979. Susan Peele's school, and one other school. 1981. Roberta Green's school, and four others. 1984. Beatrice Watson's school, no others. Last year. Mimi Marston's school _and_ Louise Tourneur's." Max paused. "It's him, Mike. He's the one."

"You get the warrants yet?"

"On their way. Be ready by the time you get your butt down here."

"Then I'm on my way."

\-----

Paar's address was in Brooklyn, but when they started for the garage to meet their backup, Max told him they were heading for Chelsea, for Paar's studio.

"You think he's there?"

"I know he is," Max said smugly. "While you were getting your beauty sleep, I was on the phone. No one answered at the house, but Mr. Paar will be available for a sitting at his studio at eleven this morning." He turned his head to the side, displaying his profile. "So which do you think is my good side?"

Paaragon Portraits occupied a good-sized space in a row of small businesses, boasting a double display window lined with samples of the merchandise. Weddings, family portraits, baby pictures, pet pictures . . . Max ran his eyes over the collage of prints, then turned to the two uniforms that had come to back them up. "Cover the back and the front," he said. "We don't want this guy getting away." He turned back to Mike. "Hang back a little when we go in," he said. "I don't want to spook him into running."

"Okay." Mike watched, one wary hand poised over his holster, as Max tested the door. Max stepped in, Mike hanging back as ordered, coming in only when a wave of Greevey's hand told him it was clear.

The anteroom was empty, nearly barren of furniture except for a row of chairs, a desk, and a small raised dais surrounded with reflectors. The door set off a chime as it opened and closed, and in a few moments a tall, lean figure stepped through a rear door. He had brown hair, graying at the temples, and a round, neat face. He spotted Max first, and his face arranged itself into a welcoming, give-me-your-business smile. Then he saw Mike, standing quietly near the door, and he stiffened, the smile vanishing with a wan, sick quaver of his lips.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his eyes darting to Max, but keeping Mike in the corner of his gaze. Max produced his badge, and the other man paled.

"John Paar?" Paar nodded weakly, and Max put the badge away. "I'm Detective Greevey, NYPD."

Paar gazed at him, unblinking, for a long, slow minute. Then his eyes cut to Mike again, and his body abruptly tensed.

"Mike!"

But Mike was already moving, springing to follow Paar through the rear door. The other man had just enough jump on him to slam it in his face, and by the time Mike ripped it open again he was gone, vanished into the depths of the back hallway. Mike heard the front door close, Max yelling for the backup. But he hadn't heard any other doors, and he was betting Paar was still inside. Drawing his gun, Mike moved cautiously down the narrow hall, testing each door as he came to it. Closet. Closet. Bathroom. Changing room. One more door before the stairs. He tested the knob, readied his gun, and pushed it open.

"Get away from there!" Paar appeared from nowhere, flying down the stairs to tackle Mike away from the door. Mike turned, twisting to bring his gun to bear, but Paar had the advantage, swiping at him from the dimness of the stairwell with something that flashed silver in the glow of the hall's single bulb. Mike felt his sleeve jerk as he ducked, and a trail of fire burned down his arm. He swore and turned his shoulder into the attack as Paar swiped again, bowling into the other man with every ounce of his two hundred pounds behind him.

Paar yelped as he pitched backwards, the door behind him flying open as he hit it, spilling him to the hard concrete. Mike was through the door and on him in an instant, his gun aimed at Paar's face. Paar paled, and his right hand twitched, the pair of scissors gleaming against his palm. Mike cocked the gun, and the sound of the hammer going back seemed to freeze Paar in the act. "Don't," Mike said evenly. "Drop it." Paar opened his hand, and Mike kicked the scissors away, hearing them skitter up against the wall. He backed up a step, still holding the gun on him. "Turn over, and put your hands behind your back. Now!"

Whatever had spurred Paar to such a fury not a minute before, it was gone now. The photographer obeyed docilely, unresisting as Mike cuffed him and read him his rights. Greevey's voice came from the hall, ordering the two uniforms to sweep the building and secure it, and to call for a team to search it. As Mike finished Mirandizing Paar, he heard the scuff of feet on the floor behind him, and Greevey's sharp intake of breath. "God Almighty," Max breathed, and for the first time, Mike looked up. And froze.

"Holy shit." He stood up slowly, lifting Paar to his feet almost as an afterthought. For a long time, all he and Max could do was stare, their suspect all but forgotten.

The room wasn't, as Mike had first supposed, a darkroom. It was a shrine. The walls, the ceiling, even parts of the floor, were all papered in photographs. Hundreds of them. Thousands. School pictures of girls, all blond-haired, all blue-eyed. They layered the walls, in places three or four deep, overlapping until all that remained of some was a smile here, a corner of fake blue sky there.

"Mike." Mike turned, the thick, gruff horror in Max's voice preparing him for the worst. Shoved against the far wall, covered by a white cloth, was a small, narrow table. Seven photographs were aligned precisely on the cloth, each arranged on a white paper doily. On each photograph, the face of the girl was carefully painted over, the blank white ovals surrounded by blond hair, and the fake autumn sky of the posed portrait.

"Jesus Christ." Mike felt suddenly unclean, loathe to even touch the body of the man he held in his hands. He gave Paar a shove out into the hall, catching him as he stumbled into the wall. Mike grabbed his arms again, prepared to frog-march him out to the car. All he wanted was to get him out of his hands as quickly as possible. "You sick bastard," he said, and heard Max give a faint rumble of warning.

"Easy, Mike," Max said, managing to sound both urgent and uncaring at the same time. He stepped out in the hall, leaving the door of the shrine open behind him. "Come on. The backup's on its way. We'll wait for them in the other room." Mike didn't move. He didn't dare. If he didn't move, if he didn't touch him, then he couldn't pound John Paar's face into the wall. Right now, there was no middle ground.

A soft touch on his back made him jump, and he turned, almost snarling, to meet Greevey's hard, angry stare. In that instant, he realized that he wasn't alone. They could do it. Paar had resisted arrest, hadn't he? Who was going to argue with an extra bruise or two? He saw it Max's eyes, knew Max saw the same thing in his. Then Mike swallowed, and looked away.

"Okay," Mike said roughly, and made himself put a careful, controlled hand on Paar's arm, gripping his bicep tight enough that he couldn't get away, but only so far, and no farther. "Come on," Mike said, and this time his voice almost sounded human. "Let's get out of here."

\-----

It was late in the afternoon by the time Mike freed himself from the stifling, sticky heat of the precinct interrogation room. Max had things under control, and with the addition of the captain, the stenographer, and a representative from the DA's office, they didn't really need him anymore. After six hours, he knew that he had to get out of there.

Mike had never had much use for the notion of evil. Far as he was concerned, people were what they were, and finger-pointing at God, or society, or the Devil didn't make a difference. He was having a hard time, though, wrapping his mind around John Paar. He'd seen worse, he admitted it. His first month on the job, even, he'd worked that string of brutal murders, the four people violently decapitated, their killer never found. He'd arrested men who'd killed their wives, women who'd killed their husbands, parents who'd killed their children, but he'd never, he was beginning to realize, encountered anyone like Paar.

Up until now, he'd only dealt with the crimes of passion, the killers who were found at the scene, still holding the gun, or the club, or the bloody knife in their hand. Sometimes they cried their remorse, sometimes they shouted their pride at the crime, sometimes they said nothing, just let themselves be led away. He'd never had to sit in the interrogation room and listen to their story. Never had to sit and pry it out of them, word by word, excavating every grisly detail with the precision of an archaeologist.

Not that that had been an issue with Paar. For an hour he had sat, unmoving, unspeaking, while Max repeatedly asked him if wanted a lawyer, if he wanted to talk. Only when Max had finally given up, had ordered that he be taken to a cell, did Paar start talking. He poured it out, a long, endless stream of confession, like a garbage-choked ditch overflowing its banks. Even now, Mike could close his eyes and see him, hear him, explaining calmly in his deep, mellow voice, what he had done.

"They're perfect now," Paar had said, leaning earnestly towards Max, his eyes blank with sincerity. "Like the others. All perfect." He'd cast his eyes at Mike, who was standing silently in the corner of the room, trying not to let the disgust and the horror show on his face. "Did you see them?" he asked, sounding concerned, as if worried that they'd missed it. "All my girls. Perfect girls. And the special ones. The ones I fixed." Then he'd smiled, and the relief on his face had thrown Mike for a second, until Paar leaned up again, folding his hands on the table. "I can't tell you," he'd said to Max, "how good it is to finally have someone to talk to about this."

Mike closed his eyes, leaning suddenly against the cool tile walls of the locker room, wondering if he was going to be sick. That would be a first. He'd gotten through his rookie year without once losing it at a crime scene, headless bodies and all. Fine irony to be getting squeamish now. But the sickness passed, and he straightened up again, reaching into his locker for his clothes. As he touched his shirt, though, he changed his mind, and grabbed his towel and shower bag instead. He couldn't scrub Paar's words from his mind, but at least he could scrub the foul stickiness of that room from his body.

He stayed as long as he dared under the hot spray, soaping and scrubbing, shampooing his hair, standing braced against the slick tiles while the water sluiced over him, washing away the grime and filth of the day. A little water seeped under the bandage wrapped around his left arm, stinging on the long, shallow cut that Paar had left him as a souvenir. The doc said it wouldn't need stitches, probably wouldn't even leave a scar, but it hurt like hell, throbbing under the bandages. Lucky for him Paar hadn't been aiming for the heart.

As he stood there, letting his muscles slowly relax from the tension of the day, he began to feel the adrenaline of the day drain as well, pooling and swelling in his groin. Mike didn't fight the rising erection, welcomed it, even, as a relief from the grim, sick memories of Paar's placid face. He slid his wet fingers down to the hardened shaft, stroking over it, urging it to rise as he replaced Paar's face with another. A soft, sweet smile, bright blue eyes, tall, lean body. He gripped himself tightly, his hand slick with soap, and thrust once into his own fist, biting his lips to stifle the groan. Ah, yes. Much better. Wipe away that sick son-of-a-bitch with this, forget about the faces of those girls. Instead, there was just the clean, smooth friction of his hand on his cock, the mindless, slippery slide of skin on skin under the pouring water. He found the memory of Ben's body next to his, the long, strong fingers digging into Mike's spine, pulling him closer. Then the memory of Ben behind him, molding his body to Mike's back, his cock slipping inside him. Mike gritted his teeth, closing his eyes as he stroked himself faster, hips pumping as he remembered what it felt like, Ben moving in and out of him, those long legs twined with his. Then Ben's voice in his ear, saying his name . . .

Mike gasped silently as he came, warm excitement spilling out over his fingers, washed away immediately in the streaming water. He pumped even harder into his fist, bent on emptying himself completely, not letting go of his softening cock until he had spent every last dram of the orgasm.

After it was over, though, he leaned back against the tiles, all the good feelings draining away, replaced by a deep, pensive melancholy. He grabbed his towel, scrubbing the water from his body with fierce attention, determined not to be trapped in this again. Since he'd been dating Ben, he'd thought he'd gotten over this, moved past that terrible, black loneliness that always seemed to follow the release of passion. Even when he wasn't alone, when he was with other people, other partners, it still happened, the aftermath of sex somehow bringing home to him the fact that he was alone. That he'd always been alone.

_Okay. Now we're really hitting the self-pity,_ Mike berated himself harshly. _Get over it,_ he told himself fiercely. _You'll see Ben tonight._ _And so what?_ the nasty little voice in him argued. _He wants to "talk." You agreed to talk, to "try to work things out." That doesn't mean he's taking you back, Mikey. That doesn't mean you'll ever have what you threw away on Ricky Caruso._

"Just shut up," he said, and realized when the sound echoed around the empty locker room that he'd actually spoken out loud. Okay. That was bad. Talking to himself, arguing with himself. Time to snap out of this.

It was easier said than done.

He called Ben from a pay phone on the street, realizing belatedly that they'd never made any actual plans about meeting. Mike had a vague notion that it might be a good idea to go to a restaurant, somewhere public where he could say what he needed to, hear what Ben needed to tell him, and not be tempted to just take him to bed and bury the problem in the bliss of ecstacy. Not that that was an entirely bad thought.

_Get a grip,_ he told himself. _Ben's not like you. Something's wrong, he wants to fix it, not cover it up. So shut your mouth and keep your pants zipped._

Ben picked up on the second ring. "Hi," Mike said. "It's me."

"Mike." Ben sounded pleased. "I was wondering when you'd call."

"Yeah, well . . ." Mike cleared his throat. "I got done later than I expected." He paused again. "Paar's in custody. We got him."

"Good. Congratulations."

"Yeah. Max is still taking his confession." Mike had to stop. "Probably going to take a while."

"I see." Ben's voice was starting to sound funny. Awkward, and stiff. Nervous, Mike suddenly realized, and oddly enough that made him feel better. There was a lot of comfort in knowing that he wasn't the only one here who didn't know what the hell he was doing.

"Uh, look, I know it's early, but I was thinking maybe we could meet for dinner somewhere," Mike offered.

Another long silence. "We could," Ben said, but didn't sound too eager. He paused again, then said, cautiously, "I guess I was thinking more along the lines of us meeting somewhere else. I thought--" He stopped. "I thought maybe I could come over there. Or you could come over here."

Mike's throat was dry. It took him two tries to get the next words out. "Okay. I'm already out, why don't I come there?"

"All right." The relief in Ben's voice matched the sudden lightening of the tension in Mike's chest. "I'll be waiting."

"I'll be there."

\-----

Ben hung up with a deep, shaking breath, forcing himself to be calm. But his hand trembled as he drew it back from the receiver, and he wiped his palm on his trousers, wondering, now, if he'd done the right thing. It had been his idea to slow down, to back off and wait until emotion had subsided. But the nights spent here, by himself, had been enough to teach him that cutting himself off from Mike wasn't the answer. He took another deep breath, bracing his hands on his thighs, then stood up and went to the bathroom to get ready.

When Mike arrived, Ben was waiting at the door, watching through the stained-glass panes as the other man strode up the walkway, a dark-haired, dangerous predator. Ben swallowed, watching, and knew that he'd made the right choice. This was the best for him. The best for both of them. He opened the door as Mike pressed the bell, and saw the other's man gaze flick over him, taking in the belted bathrobe, the bare feet, the glasses, forgotten until now, perched on his nose.

"Is this a new look?" Mike asked as Ben stepped aside to let him in. His voice was easy, light, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His hands were in his pockets, nervous, and Ben felt a pang of conscience. Enough was enough.

"No." Ben took off his glasses, folding them into his pocket. "Just lazy." He stepped forward, offering a kiss, and closed his eyes as Mike accepted it, gratefully. His mouth was soft, the kiss oddly shy, as if Mike were no longer sure of its welcome. Ben drew back a little, nibbling tiny, soft bites along Mike's lower lip, gentle, teasing nips that continued until finally Mike relented, and joined in the game, seeking his own taste of Ben's mouth, trading nibbles, kisses, and licks until they were both smiling, enjoying the contest.

Then Ben kissed Mike again, earnestly, sliding his mouth over Mike's, delicately insinuating a questing tongue between Mike's lips until they opened, surrendering. He let the kiss go on for a moment, feeling Mike's breath begin to quicken, then reached out, finding one of Mike's big, broad hands, and wrapped his fingers around the wrist, slowly drawing it into the gap of his robe. He pressed Mike's palm to the smooth, bare skin underneath, guiding it down his own body, over the soft, silky swell of his hip, naked under the robe. Mike gave a faint exclamation of surprise, and pulled back, looking at Ben warily. But he kept his hand where it was.

"I thought we were going to talk about this," he said, but the deep, almost hoarse tone of lust in his voice betrayed him. Ben shook his head, leaning up to press his mouth to Mike's neck, tasting the salty sweat on his skin.

"I don't want to talk," he said, and bit gently at the soft skin just under his jaw. Then he took Mike's hand, and led him upstairs.

When they reached the bedroom, Ben turned, putting his hands on the tie of his robe, but Mike was there before him, his hands pushing at the collar, parting the cloth at his neck. Ben let his hands drop, then lifted them to Mike's back as the other man bent close, dropping his head to mouth softly at the bare skin as it was exposed. Mike pushed the robe gently from his shoulders, his hands soft and gentle, caressing the skin as he bared it, then following with lips and tongue, each kiss a soft brush of electric warmth against Ben's skin. He moved with care across Ben's shoulders, his kisses extraordinarily gentle, tenderly tracing the line of Ben's collarbone, licking the hollows under his throat, pressing his mouth to the curve of his shoulder. Mike kissed down his bare arm, sliding the robe away, then ran his hands possessively over Ben's back, caressing the length of his body, taking the robe with them. He let it fall in a puddle at Ben's feet, still breathing in his scent, his mouth pressed to the swell of Ben's shoulder.

It wasn't until the glorious, soft warmth of Mike's mouth was taken away that Ben realized he was standing with his eyes closed, drinking in the sensation of Mike's mouth on him, luxuriating in the soft, sweet caresses. He could feel the flush of desire on his skin, the heat radiating from him, and from the body pressed against him. But then it was gone, and Ben opened his eyes, dazed and wondering, to see what had drawn Mike away.

Mike was still there, his hands still caressing softly down Ben's arms. But he was holding him at arms' length, his head tilted to the side. Studying him, as if he'd never seen him before. Ben was suddenly, self-consciously aware of his own nakedness, of his thin, pale body, mottled, he was sure, with the red of passion, his blushing penis standing out straight and stiff from his waist. But Mike was looking at him with soft, dreamy eyes, his expression one of profound absorption. His left hand moved, reaching up to brush delicate fingers down Ben's side, stroking with exquisite care over his hip, then across his stomach and chest, touching him as if he were a precious artifact. A cautious, tender finger traced the line of his sternum, dropping down to circle his navel, leaving a trail of tingling arousal in its wake until finally it brushed, with the lightest of feathering touches, the taut length of his penis. Ben let out a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding, frozen under Mike's gaze, paralyzed by the soft, caressing grip on his arm. He was naked under Mike's eyes, exposed. He had never been so turned on in his life.

Slowly, Mike let his hands drop to his sides, then, still holding Ben with that same intent, absorbed stare, he stepped back, reaching for the hem of his shirt. He stripped slowly while Ben watched, pulling off his shirt with a leisurely, sensual arch of his back, letting the shirt fall carelessly to the floor behind him. The jeans were next, the slow glide of the zipper an almost unbearable suspense until it was finally open, the bulge behind the underwear unmistakable. Mike took his time sliding the jeans from his hips, his eyes fixed on Ben's face while he caressed his own hands down his legs, toeing out of his shoes and socks, stepping from the bunched denim and kicking it aside, leaving him naked to Ben's eyes. He was as hard as Ben, his cock bouncing gently with his movements, the whole length flushed a dark, hungry purple. Ben licked at his suddenly dry lips, and, as if reading his mind, Mike stepped forward, sliding his hands around his waist, bringing their bodies together.

But it was only for a moment. Almost as soon as Ben surrendered to the sensation, reveling in the feel of hot, damp skin next to his, Mike was pulling away, sliding down his body, his mouth pressing quick, hurried kisses along the line of Ben's chest and stomach until he was on his knees in front of him, tilting his head to take Ben in his mouth. Ben felt his cock leap between Mike's lips, felt it swell impossibly as Mike drew it in, opening his mouth to swallow as much as he could of it. Ben's knees began to tremble, and Mike's arms wrapped abruptly around his hips, pulling him closer, holding him tight against Mike's body. Ben let his hands fall limply to the dark head bent in front of him, stroking his fingers mindlessly through the thick locks. He let his head fall forward, his breath leaving him in a soft, shaken sigh as Mike's mouth continued to work him, engulfing him in wet, sucking, heat. Ben touched his hair again, running his palms over the sleek, damp mass, watching in dazed wonder as his own wet cock slid in and out of Mike's lips. Mike's eyes were closed, his face rapt with attention to his job, his beautiful, pale throat working as he sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, the muscles under his jaw bunching as his tongue danced around the tip. He spread his knees, tightening his hold to bear up Ben's weight, supporting him while he slowly, thoroughly, ravaged him.

Finally, just when Ben was sure he couldn't take it another second, Mike let him go, letting his cock slide out with a final, sweet kiss on the tip, He released him slowly, and stood, pulling Ben into his arms and kissing him again. The desire in him had risen to an almost painful fever pitch, every kiss like a surge of electricity, sending a flush of heat along his sensitized skin. Pleasure so intense, so overwhelming, that it was almost pain. He wanted to push Mike away, to make it stop, and at the same time he pulled himself closer, willing himself to mold with every part of the body in front of him, wishing it would never stop.

"Please, please . . ." he heard someone say, and realized belatedly that the soft, whimpering plea was his own. "Mike," he breathed. "Please . . . I want you, please . . ."

Mike made a hoarse, choked sound against him, almost a groan, nearly a whimper. His lips fastened on Ben's throat, sucking hard, his arms crushing him impossibly closer. Then his grip tightened, and shifted, and Ben was suddenly propelled back towards the bed, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor as he let himself be swept along by Mike's strong arms. He fell back on the bed with a thump, pulling Mike down with him.

Ben lay there, panting, for a moment, looking up at the darkly flushed face above him, eyes smoldering under the fallen shock of black hair. He gulped for breath, and reached up. "Mike," he said quietly, and Mike closed his eyes, his cock leaping up visibly from the soft nest at his groin. "Please, Mike," Ben said again, Mike nodded, his breath rushing out of him in a long, helpless sigh.

Mike's hands were extraordinarily gentle, soft and careful on Ben's skin as he turned him over. The same hands that had so effortlessly lifted his weight not a minute before, the strength in those broad arms almost frightening, were now touching him with delicate, tender attention. His palms lingered over Ben's buttocks, massaging, kneading, the big hands cupping and squeezing him before moving on, sliding down to spread his thighs, pushing his knees up until he was kneeling slightly on the bed, ready, waiting.

Ben gulped at the first slick touch, closing his eyes as the warm, probing finger slid around and around the aching opening, teasing, soothing . . . driving him mad. He pushed back with his hips, wordlessly urging, and was rewarded with a soft, gentle pressure at the center of the tight bud. He pushed back again, willing himself to open, to accept the softly insistent intrusion, and groaned when he did, the finger sliding up into him, slick and warm. Ben let his head fall to the pillows, trying to control his breathing, hearing his heart pound in his chest. His pulse throbbed around the gently wiggling finger inside him, and he clenched his muscles, moaning again as the finger slid out, then was joined by another.

By the time Mike was finished with him, Ben was sure that every joint in his body had collapsed, overwhelmed with sensation, leaving him nothing but the taut, throbbing desire between his legs. The fingers were gone now, but he could feel himself still opened, more than ready for that thick, sweet cock. Mike took his time though, the soft, wet sounds his fingers made as he slicked himself down only adding to the frustration. Finally, though, he was back, his fingers caressing over him one last time, then the soft, round tip of his penis was right there, settling in, ready to push forward. Ben took a deep breath, spread his knees a little further, and let himself open.

They both cried out in surprise, Ben muffling an unintended scream in the pillows as Mike's full length slid into him at once, slick and fast, spreading him wide. Mike gasped out loud, his hands tightening on Ben's back as he was pulled in, his cock swallowed helplessly in Ben's body. It should have hurt, and it did hurt, a little, but the pain was gone almost before he noticed, subsumed in the sudden, hot frenzy of sensation of feeling Mike inside him. They both held there a while, panting, Mike's pulse beating hard against Ben's back, his hands gripping him mindlessly. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath, and began to thrust.

The first thrust was long, and slow, and so was the second, and the third. Mike, taking his time, moving in and out of Ben's body with powerful, lingering strokes. Drawing it out as long as he possibly could. Ben fell quickly into the rhythm, lifting his hips, arching his back, before long spreading his knees out, lowering himself to the mattress to ease the strain on his joints, sensing that this was going to take a long, long time.

Mike didn't disappoint him. Ben spread out underneath him, melting more into the mattress with each burning stroke, his limbs awash with limp sensation. Mike draped himself over Ben's back like a warm, sweaty blanket, never ceasing the slow, glorious pumping of his hips. Ben pushed back to help, lifting his own hips up to meet every thrust, his erection rubbing delightfully against the covers with every long, slow arch of his back. They rocked there together, making long, slow love on top of the big bed, for longer than Ben wanted to count. It was so good, so delicious, Mike moving in and out of him, working them both up to a long, swelling peak of passion, achingly slow, unbearably sweet.

But it couldn't last. Eventually, Ben felt the desire rise up in him, a long, rolling wave that was as slow and inevitable as an incoming tide. Every strong thrust brought him a little closer, every caress of Mike's hands on his body, every brush of his lips and tongue on Ben's back. Mike was feeling it, too, his breath beginning to pant harshly in his chest, his slow pumping taking on a quiet, increased urgency. He stroked Ben's back again, settling his hands on his hips, and thrust in a little harder, quickening the tempo. Ben choked back a cry at his cock leapt up under him, and rose to copy the rhythm, pushing his knees up again to meet Mike's thrusts.

It took a long, glorious forever, neither of them wanting to end it, but helpless to resist the demands of their impatient bodies. Ben felt his hands clenching in the pillows, clawing at the covers as he fought to hold back, even as his back arched up, driving himself hard against the delicious friction of Mike's cock inside him. Then Mike leaned forward, bracing a hand to the side of Ben's shoulder, and the other slid under his body, finding his hard length and sliding his fingers down it. Just a touch, just a light caress of two fingers over the taut skin, but one stroke, two strokes, and it was enough.

Ben came hard, bucking under Mike as the shudders rippled through his body, feeling his muscles clench in a sharp, involuntary squeeze around Mike's thrusting shaft. Then Mike was coming, too, his hips pushing hard against him, collapsing them both on top of the covers, their bodies shivering together in the heat. Mike was whispering in Ben's ear, soft words, sweet, breathless endearments that he barely heard, could scarcely comprehend behind the mind-blowing lassitude of orgasm. Not that he cared. It was enough, now, to simply have that warm, stifling weight on top of him, to have that deep, sonorous voice in his ear, no matter what he was saying.

Then Mike fell silent with a soft kiss at the back of Ben's neck, and Ben felt him shift. He suppressed a whimper as his softening length slipped away. Ben rolled over, reaching out, seeking, and felt a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. "I'll be right back," Mike promised, and Ben nodded accepting. He was already drowsing into sleep, naked on top of the covers, chilling now that his warm blanket was gone. But Mike was back soon, as promised, and together they managed to crawl beneath the covers, warm with their lovemaking, and wrap themselves around one another in the dark. Ben kissed Mike's temple, sleepily, and tightened his hold around him. "Stay," he whispered quietly, and felt the soft hairs move against his arm as Mike nodded.

"I will," he said. "I'm not going anywhere." Buoyed by the promise, Ben fell asleep.

\-----

In the wee hours of the morning, Ben felt Mike leave the bed. It wasn't that Ben was such a light sleeper, but the process of disentangling his limbs from Ben's made it almost impossible for Mike to get up without disturbing him. Ben rolled over, trying to form a protest, but was too groggy to do anything more than watch that long, pale body move silently to the bathroom door. Reassured that he would return, Ben closed his eyes again, but found, now, that he was slowly, inexorably, coming wide awake.

He held the covers back as Mike returned, wrapping his arms around him in a soft, loose embrace as he lay back down. They lay together silently for a while, Ben idly running his fingers through Mike's hair, petting it back gently from his face.

"I thought we agreed that this wouldn't be a good idea," Mike finally said drowsily, the smile audible in the dark.

"Well . . ." Ben said carelessly. He stroked Mike's hair again. "There are good ideas, and then there are good ideas." He shifted, bringing Mike closer. "I thought it would nice to have some distance. Some time to think."

"Did you think?"

"Mm-hm." Ben bent down, searching for Mike's mouth in the dark. "I thought about you," he said when they parted. "Day and night."

Mike said nothing, only wrapped himself around Ben's body, kissing him softly. Then he slid back down into Ben's arms, resting his cheek on Ben's chest. They lay there a long time, quietly in the dark, until Ben finally found the courage to speak.

"Who was it?"

He asked the question softly, casually, as if it didn't matter. As if he could fool Mike into thinking that it didn't matter. He hadn't meant to ask, had told himself that it would be best not to know. Right.

Mike shifted against him, his body tensing. But he didn't pretend to misunderstand. "My partner," he said finally, and Ben felt a cold weight drop into his gut. "Caruso." He swallowed. "Ricky."

Ricky Caruso. Ben thought he might be sick. Tall, dark-haired, beautiful, green-eyed Ricky Caruso. Ben closed his eyes. "I see."

He didn't think his despair would show, but Mike obviously heard something in his voice. He lifted himself up, taking Ben's face in his hands, kissing him again. "I shouldn't have told you," he said flatly. "I'm sorry."

"No." Ben took in a deep breath. "No, I'm glad I know." _Glad I know that he's gone,_ and hated himself at once for having even thought it. He patted Mike's arm, trying to smile, even in the dark. "It's all right," he lied. "I'm glad I know."

Mike held still for a moment. "Ben," he said quietly. "It's never going to happen again. We were both . . . on the edge, that night. It shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake. And I'm sorry." He kissed Ben again. "He's not you," he said, and Ben felt a flood of relief. "He never was you." He withdrew again. "Okay?"

Ben nodded, then reached up and stroked Mike's face, his fingers soft on the rough-stubbled cheek. "Okay," he agreed.

"Good." Mike kissed him one last time, then settled down his arms, wrapping Ben's body around him. "Let's get some sleep, all right?"

\-----

Ben rose early in the morning. Leaving Mike sprawled asleep over his half of the bed, he went downstairs and started a pot of coffee, then debated briefly about what to fix for his breakfast. He was just pouring the first batch of eggs into the pan when Mike appeared in the doorway, unshaven, hair mussed, and yawning. He was wearing one of Ben's bathrobes, a blue silk one that had been a present from Helen. It fit him well, Ben noted with pardonable satisfaction.

With a sleepy smile, Mike sat down at the breakfast table, running his hands through his hair and yawning again. Ben brought him a cup of coffee without being asked, and watched as Mike reverently breathed in the steam before taking the first sip.

"Good morning," Ben said, and bent down to kiss his cheek. Mike, nose still buried in the coffee mug, smiled in reply and then turned his head, catching Ben's mouth with a quick kiss of the own.

"Morning," he said at last, and leaned his elbows on the table, cradling the coffee cup in his hands.

"You want breakfast?" Ben offered, and returned to pushing the eggs around in the skillet.

"I'm starving," Mike said, and sipped coffee again.

Still stirring the eggs, Ben took the opportunity to give him a long look, complacently assessing the rumpled, tousled figure slumped at his breakfast table. "I could get used to this," he said.

Now halfway through his first coffee, Mike was, as scheduled, beginning to wake up. "So could I," he said, sitting up straighter as he looked at Ben, and smiled. While Ben watched, brows lifting, Mike stood up and walked over to the stove, putting his arms around Ben's waist from behind. He was still holding the coffee cup, but hot coffee became the least of Ben's concerns as a pair of warm, soft lips began to nuzzle the back of his neck.

"Thanks," Mike finally said, his words muffled in Ben's skin.

"For what?" Ben gave the eggs another stir, letting himself lean back into Mike's embrace.

It took a while for Mike to answer. "For seeing me last night," he said. "For giving me a second chance."

Ben lifted a hand to curve over the arm that spanned his waist, rubbing his palm up under the hem of the smooth silk robe, caressing the skin underneath. "I missed you," he said simply. "Mike . . . I hope you understand that I never hated you."

A brief snort became a pulse of heated air down his back. "Believe me, I know." Mike tightened his grip for a moment, laying his cheek against Ben's shoulder. "I almost wish you had," he said after a while. "That's how I'm used to doing things, you know. Some shouting, maybe a couple of thrown dishes, _then_ sex." He paused, then added with a soft, purring, chuckle, "You're messing up my foreplay."

Ben laughed. "I can make you drop that coffee cup, if it will make you feel any better."

If anything, Mike's fingers tightened around the ceramic handle. "No way. You make me miss my morning cup of joe, and then there'll _really_ be trouble" He fell silent then, his head resting against Ben's, his chest moving slowly against Ben's back with the quiet rhythm of his breath. They stayed that way, locked in the loose, comfortable embrace, Mike watching over Ben's shoulder while he finished cooking the eggs.

"Ben . . ."

Ben waited, spatula poised. "Yes?" he finally prompted.

Gently, Mike withdrew from the embrace, leaving one hand on Ben's waist while he turned Ben to face him. "Ben," he said again, and Ben was struck by the sudden doubt in his face, the clear eyes shadowed with the worry that Ben hadn't heard in his voice.

"What is it?"

"Ben . . ." Mike said for the third time, then looked away, running his hand over his hair. "I just want to know . . . is this it? Are we . . . ?" He wiped his hand over his face, another uneasy gesture, then blurted, in a quiet rush of words, "I just want to know if this means we're back." He swallowed. "Back to what we were before."

It took Ben a startled second to form an answer. "Well," he said at last, "I thought that was the point." He regarded Mike for a long moment. "Is that what you want?"

Mike's chin came up. "Yeah. Yeah, it is," he finished defiantly, as if daring Ben to contradict him.

Slowly, Ben nodded. "All right then." He searched Mike's face. "It might not be easy," he felt obliged to say. "Things have changed."

"I know." Mike took a deep breath. "I know," he said again, "but I'm willing to give it another try."

Ben smiled. "Good."

\-----

Eighteen Months Later

\-----

" . . . and serve the citizens of New York. Congratulations, Detective."

Mike shook the Police Chief's hand, not quite able to keep from grinning ear to ear as he finally felt the weight of the gold badge in his hand. Behind the Chief, he could see his dad standing in the front row, looking so proud that he seemed about to burst. Katy was next to him, grinning and clapping right alongside, and Mike gave her a wink and a grin before his eyes moved up, looking for one particular face among the small crowd.

Ben had debated with him about whether or not to come, not wanting to make any waves for him, show him any partiality that might get him in trouble with his colleagues. Mike would have had him there anyway, but then Max had made things easy by insisting that Ben come to see his new partner get promoted. After all, Max had argued, if it hadn't been for Ben they'd never have met.

That was a nice irony. Ben as matchmaker. Remembering what it'd been like to work with Greevey, Mike wasn't so sure that Ben had done him a favor. But he was on the DA's Squad now, the elite of the force, and that was nothing to sneeze at for a rookie detective with the ink still wet on his promotion papers.

The Chief wrapped up the ceremony with a few words, and Mike caught Ben's eye again as he applauded, giving Mike a smile that was only meant for him. It was nice having him here, even if it couldn't be as anything more than another professional friend. Later, after Mike's family had had a chance to fuss over him, they'd have their own private celebration. Not only for Mike's promotion, either.

Mike couldn't believe it had been two years. Granted, it had taken them months before they'd gone on that first, not-quite-date, but it was hard to fathom that it had been two years ago that they'd first sized each other up across a crowded squad room. Mike hadn't even thought about it, and he'd been surprised when Ben mentioned it. Not that he was going to turn down a chance to celebrate. No way.

Ben had been right. It hadn't been easy. Mike glanced at the badge in his hand, then lifted his gaze to meet Ben's once more, smiling out over the crowd and not caring, for a single instant, who saw. Nope, not easy. But it had been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Although Ricky is borrowed from the show "The Commish," he's the only element of that show that appears in the story. The character Heather Coyne appears in the Law &amp; Order episode "Seed." This story takes place about four years before the events of the first season of Law &amp; Order.
> 
> **Thanks** to Carolyn, Calcasieu, coolgrin, and Jeannie, the most patient beta-readers on the planet. This story wouldn't have made it without you.
> 
> **Special Thanks** to Lorelei, for beta research and encouragement far above and beyond the call of duty.


End file.
